


Chuck Versus Route 66—Part Two (Chuck 6.06)

by anthropocene



Series: Chuck Season 6 [6]
Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Espionage, F/M, Road Trips, Romance, Science Fiction, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthropocene/pseuds/anthropocene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part two of "Chuck Versus Route 66," and the sixth episode of an imaginary sixth season of Chuck. Chuck and Sarah finish their Route 66 road trip and arrive in Chicago—but the intrigue, adventure, and romance don't slow down. Casey's involved...and meanwhile, back in Burbank, Morgan and Alex receive a surprising call for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a SOUNDTRACK for this episode (as in the actual series). Music cues are embedded in the text, and you can listen while you read! The soundtrack is available on 8tracks dot com; just search on the tag “anthropocene.” You can also find a direct link to the soundtrack on my author Bio page.
> 
> I appreciate hearing from my readers at any time...whether you liked the story or not, or have comments or questions. Even just a few words are always welcome. This is the only compensation a FF author ever gets. So please send me a comment via the box at the end of each chapter...and THANK YOU!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Chuck…not even in the tortured dreams where my hypothetical "season 6" episodes first take shape. So the WB can chillax.

**Thursday evening, Washington, D. C.**  

_(Music: "Your Secret's Safe With Me," by Walking Papers)_

The black government limousine melds with the ebb and flow of the capital city's interminable rush hour. The hulking and heavily armored car appears to be progressing toward a specific destination, but it is only cruising—marking time. Its driver has orders to roam the major streets and avenues, immersed in the traffic, while his very important passenger transacts her business in the plush rear cabin of the vehicle.

That passenger—the diminutive but imposing General Diane Beckman, Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence—removes two crystal glasses and a Swarovski flask of single-malt Scotch from a concealed cabinet. She hands one of the glasses to the passenger who has just joined her.

"A drink, Colonel?" Beckman asks him. "It will help the medicine go down."

Casey takes the glass. "You're making it sound like it'll be my last drink, ma'am."

The General chuckles, pours him a generous shot of the amber-colored, smoky-scented whisky, and one for herself. As she does, her hand trembles just a little—almost unnoticeably, except to an observer as well-trained and perceptive as John Casey.

"If you and I didn't go back as far as we do, John…." Beckman leaves that thought hanging as they clink their glasses and empty them, then continues.

"Your new friend at the FBI? Tomas Mazowiecki?"

"Yeah?"

"Just been transferred out of Los Angeles. Even as we speak, he's already enroute to his new assignment…on the North Slope of Alaska."

" _Hmnh..."_ Casey's grunt has a hint of alarm in it. "And for me…?"

"For you, just a simple request from one old friend to another: Back off. The scenario is _not_ what Mr. Mazowiecki has apparently led you to imagine."

"I didn't _imagine_ that EMP deployment," Casey retorts.

Beckman's eyes narrow. "All I'm going to say to you," she replies, imperiously, "is that ever since the Quinn affair, I've been looking out for Chuck and Sarah. And you as well. Some of your old enemies are still at large. No cause for them to see you all profiled on the evening news."

"So _you're_ the one playing guardian angel?"

"Let's just call it part of your government COBRA plan."

"Now that's a telling choice of words," notes Casey. "'Cause isn't it the _ex-employee_ who has to pay for that coverage?"

The General says nothing—just pours him another whisky.

After he downs it, he tells her, "You know I won't—I _can't_ —keep this intel secret from Bartowski and Walker. They deserve to know what's going on."

"Give them both my fondest regards," Beckman dryly answers. "That is, assuming you can get a call through to them any time soon."

" _Hmmh,"_ grunts Casey, recalling his own futile attempt to reach Chuck and Sarah a few minutes earlier. He waits for the General to elaborate, but she keeps mum as the limousine pulls up to the curb—back again at the Old Post Office—and a member of the security detail in the front seat hops out to open the door for him.

* * *

Moments later, after Casey has gone, General Beckman lets out a long, slow breath, and helps herself to another Scotch. Then she picks up a phone to make an encrypted call. She gets a reply after just one ring.

_("Sí…ma'am?")_

"I've just dealt with the immediate problem," Beckman speaks icily into the phone. "But _you_ …Agent Saldana—you can expect to be on a much, _much_ shorter leash from now on."

* * *

**At the same time, in the tiny rural community of Langenkamp, Oklahoma**

A handful of terrified teachers and tearful parents huddle together in the scant shelter of a portico in front of the Troyal G. Brooks Elementary School: hanging onto each other to stay upright in the gusts, keeping watch on the storm-swept county road leading into town, increasingly desperate for the sight of the long-overdue school bus carrying thirty-seven (or, more accurately, thirty-eight) dearly beloved souls.

A trim, silver-haired woman wearing a smart dress and a no-nonsense look—the school principal or some similar authority figure—emerges from the front entrance into the portico. She takes care to open the door just enough for her to squeeze through, but the wind seizes it from her grasp anyway, swings it wide, and _slams_ it against the adjacent wall. The group beneath the portico turns to the silver-haired woman in surprise.

" _You can't stay out here!"_ the woman shouts at them. _"There's too much debris flying around! Please come inside now—you can keep watch through the…the…"_

The silver-haired woman's voice trails off as…before everyone's eyes, a few miles off, a funnel cloud spins out of the tormented overcast sky—and in less than a second, fattens into a coal-black twister that _SLAMS_ down to the ground with a ferocity they can all hear, even over the incessant background whine of the wind.

A middle-aged woman under the portico _screams_ and drops limply to her knees…as the others begin to sob and beg and pray out loud, gripped by terror and despair….

The tornado appears to have made first contact squarely on the right-of-way of the county road, tossing big chunks of pavement and other debris all about, disemboweling the roadway with a bone-chilling roar….

The school building is far enough away to be in no imminent danger…but if the school bus was anywhere close to that twister….

Sharing that unspeakable realization, the helpless townsfolk cry and pray ever louder, as the tornado goes on ripping across the landscape, and the first few horrible seconds stretch into agonizing minutes. Then, all of a sudden, the silver-haired woman sees something else, and points hopefully up the road….

_(Music: "Heroic Theme from Chuck," by Tim Jones)_

The school bus pops up from behind the last ridge at the edge of town, its wheels leaping off the pavement and back down again as it streaks hell-for-leather into tiny Langenkamp and makes straight for the school, with the twister as a sinister backdrop. Before the frightened teachers and parents fully grasp what's happening, the bus races into the driveway under the portico and _squeeeeeeals_ to a stop, with its red warning lights strobing.

The front door and side emergency doors snap open _(Thang! Thunk!)_ and thirty-six little children in ponchos and bicycle helmets efficiently file out from both exits. The parents and teachers gasp and cry out and reach to embrace the kids—but the silver-haired woman knows better than to keep them outside even for a moment.

" _Inside, all of you! Now!"_ She gestures toward the wide-open entrance to the school, and the kids dutifully stream into the safe enclosure of the solidly built structure.

As the adults begin to follow them, Chuck abruptly sticks his head out the front door of the bus and calls out, _"I could use a little help here, please!"_

Two muscled young farmers in denim overalls—twins—turn and quickly climb aboard, which proves a bit excessive as Chuck needed only one other person to help him bring the bus driver out. So he lets the beefy twins carry her, dazed and limp but smiling, into the school, while he stays back to help his wife descend from the bus with a most precious cargo. Sarah cradles a sleeping, perfectly healthy newborn girl, tightly swaddled in her jacket. Her attention is completely fixed on the baby in her arms. Chuck reaches an arm around Sarah's waist and guides her into the building, out of the wind and rain.

The silver-haired woman conducts the farmer twins and the Bartowskis—each with their burden—across the front lobby, weaving around little clusters of family members and teachers bending down to joyfully sweep the rescued children up in their arms. She directs them into the school nurse's office, where the twins gingerly lay the bus driver onto a cot.

"Thank you," the young woman murmurs, then looks up at Sarah and holds out her arms expectantly.

Sarah doesn't notice—she's still enraptured, softly whispering to the infant girl and lightly caressing her face.

"Uhh…babe?" Chuck taps her on the shoulder.

"Hmm? _Oh!_ Oh—yes—I'm so sorry," Sarah says to the bus driver. Blushing, she steps forward and carefully places the baby in her mother's arms. Chuck stands alongside his wife and takes her hand.

"It's okay, ma'am," replies the driver, cuddling her child and beaming at Sarah and Chuck. "Maybe I'da never had this chance, if you hadn't helped us like y'did. You're heroes…thank you both."

The silver-haired woman joins them, looking both confused and awed.

"Name's Darlene Bloom. I'm the principal here."

"Charles and Sarah Carmichael," Chuck says, as they shake hands with her in turn.

"Sir, if I understand this correctly," Bloom goes on, "between the both of you, you got the bus back on the road and out of the path of the twister, saved our kids... _and_ you also delivered Lucille's baby on the way?"

"I think that covers it," replies Chuck.

The principal shakes her head in amazement.

"It was mostly luck," Sarah quickly adds—addressing Bloom, but occasionally glancing sideways to watch Lucille bonding with her little girl. "Chu... _Charles_ and I were looking for shelter and the police sent us this way. We just happened upon that bus."

"Anybody would have stopped to help," says Chuck, and Sarah nods in agreement.

"Perhaps," answers Bloom, "but I have this sense there's something special about the both of you. This is a very small town, and just about everyone here's now in your debt, for what you did."

In the hallway just outside the nurse's office, teachers and townspeople—wide-eyed and tear-streaked, some of them clutching rescued children in their arms, begin to gather. They press close to the office window, touching the glass, brimming with wonder, murmuring thanks and blessings, staring at the new heroes of Langenkamp.

" _This could get out of hand,"_ Sarah whispers in Chuck's ear. _"We can't stick around…but do we even know if we still have a car?"_

Chuck slips his iPhone out of his pocket, taps in a code, and looks at the screen.

" _The package is still intact,"_ he whispers back. _"Tracer signal's strong. Could be a good sign."_

Sarah nods and turns back toward Bloom with an urgent expression.

"Darlene—thank you—we're glad it all turned out well—but Chuck and I left our own car back there, and it's really important that we try and find it and see if it can still be driven."

"As soon as the storm ends," says Chuck. "Can somebody help us?"

The principal is abashed. "I—or anyone in town—would be happy to drive you back up the road and help you look, but I'm concerned that the road's been damaged…or blocked by debris."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that," Chuck mutters.

"The county repair crew'll be out tomorrow." Bloom goes on. "You'd be more than welcome to stay the night…I've got a spare bedroom upstairs at my h—"

" _We_ can bring 'em!" one of the farmer twins cuts in excitedly. "Wind's probably dying down by now, and we can get 'em out there for a look-see before the sun sets."

"But the road…?" Bloom persists.

"Who said anythin' about using the _road!"_ the other twin booms, full-on grinning.

* * *

**About forty-five minutes later**

_(Music: "Friends in Low Places," by Garth Brooks)_

Near dusk the storm quiets, and the orange-red sun briefly hangs in the narrow strip of sky between the low clouds and the flat horizon. Just outside of Langenkamp, an Oxbo mechanized corn harvester—a piece of farm equipment about as tall and long as a semi-trailer—steadily churns its way through the wet, wind-tousled cornfields, paralleling the county road at a short distance, headed for the swath carved by the tornado.

The glassed-in cab of the harvester is tight and has only a single seat for the operator: one of the farmer twins, joyfully braying along with the music pouring from a satellite radio, skillfully piloting the big machine on a course dictated by Chuck, scrunched with Sarah in what little space is available behind the seat. Chuck holds his iPhone out at arm's length, so that both he and the farmer can follow the tracer signal emanating from the case containing the Keys—hopefully still locked in the trunk of an intact 1962 Corvette.

" _Well, ah guess ah was wrong—ah just don't belong—but then, ah've been there before…_ hee, hee! Love that Garth! Don't you?"

"Who doesn't?" Chuck replies, while grimacing surreptitiously at the farmer's off-key singing.

The other twin follows a short distance behind, in the harvester's wide wake, on a John Deere tractor. As the unusual caravan cuts its way through cornstalks as high as an elephant's eye, Chuck turns to his wife with a proud expression.

"Haven't had a chance to say how incredible you were, Sarah, delivering that baby. You're the real hero."

She laughs and shakes her head. "That was all Ellie. I just followed her instructions."

"Ellie wouldn't see it that way—and neither do I."

Sarah nuzzles against his neck. "You're sweet."

"And…um…I _also_ noticed how much you fussed over that tiny girl until her mom was safe. Kind of looked like you were thinking about one of our own. Am I right?"

He feels her body tense up for a moment…and then she sighs pensively.

"Someday, Chuck…someday. I don't know…I just don't think I'm ready for it yet. But someday..." She lifts her eyes up toward his. "You understand—don't you?"

Chuck gently caresses her cheek. "Yeah, babe—of course I understand."

"You always do." Sarah leans into him with a soft, wordless, happy murmur.

Shortly thereafter, the harvester and tractor putter over a small rise and down into a swale—and it's clear that they have reached the track of the twister's devastation. The machines come to a stop, and Chuck, Sarah, and the farmer twins clamber down to the ground to survey the scene.

As Darlene Bloom had feared, the county road is shredded for hundreds of feet in either direction—and stripped away to bare soil along the midline of an angry, wide, debris-laden swath that stretches off through miles of flattened cornstalks. One of the twins whistles loudly—and Sarah and Chuck reflexively cling to each other as they both realize that the school bus had been parked _very_ close to this spot.

And there is no sign of their blue Corvette—but the tracer signal on Chuck's iPhone is still strong, and emanating from somewhere farther along the track of the tornado.

"It took the car," Chuck cries out, "took it… _that_ way!" He sprints off, with Sarah chasing him. The farmer twins look to each other, shrug their shoulders, then climb back aboard their machines and follow at a more leisurely pace.

They catch up with the Bartowskis about a quarter-mile away from the county road. Chuck and Sarah stand, breathing hard, in front of an enormous oblong mound of damp hay littered on the top and sides with shards of wooden beams and corrugated metal. Even more hay lies scattered about the twister's path as far as they can see. Chuck waves his iPhone at the sprawling mess.

"It's in _there!"_ he yells. "The signal's coming from inside that big pile of—"

" _Sheesh!"_ one of the twins interjects. "Wadn't that Cogswell's hay barn?"

"Yup," replies the other. "Twister must've sideswiped it passin' by, an' just knocked the whole blamed thing flat on its ass."

The first twin nods. "Isn't that a damn sight. Not a bale left standin'."

Chuck stuffs the iPhone back in his pocket.

"Well I don't know about the car—but the _package_ at least has to be in there somewhere!" He lurches forward and paws at the hay.

"Chuck _—stop!"_ shouts Sarah.

Too late! Almost instantaneously, Chuck's entire face contorts, and he staggers backward, consumed by a fit of violent sneezing _(Hahh—chooo! HAAH—shuunh! Snnnt! Whaahh—SHOOSH!)._ Sarah runs to his side, grabs his hand, and tugs him away from the wreckage.

"How could you forget about your hay fever?" she affectionately chides him, as his sneezes subside to sniffles. With a wink, she adds, "Guess you'd better stay in the harvester."

"Ma'am, if he's as allergic as all that, you oughtn't get any of that hay on you neither," one of the twins recommends. "Whyn't you both set in the cab an' listen to Garth while me an' my brother try findin' your car?"

So Chuck and Sarah climb back inside the harvester. Chuck turns the air conditioner way up—to filter the air—and turns the music way down, as Sarah chuckles in amusement. They watch as the farmer twins flail at the hay, slowly carving their way into the huge pile. Before very long, one of them stops after contacting some kind of solid object. He says something to his brother, who quickly brings the John Deere tractor up close to the pile. The other twin uncoils a cable from a winch at the front end of the tractor, and crawls into the hay with the cable in his hand.

Chuck sticks his head out of the cab and asks, "D'you find it?"

"Yup!" replies the twin on the tractor.

"That's fantastic! But go easy, okay? That's a classic resto-mod that may still be in one piece more or less in there!"

The other farmer twin emerges from the pile and starts the winch. Sarah gives a little cry and squeezes Chuck's hand as their blue '62 Corvette gradually appears: right-side up; with its interior and every nook and cranny stuffed full of hay like a scarecrow—but otherwise, seemingly undamaged. One twin unhooks the cable while the other opens the driver-side door. Hay cascades out as he reaches in to disengage the parking brake, and then both twins roll the car toward the harvester. Laughing in disbelief, Sarah and Chuck come down from the cab.

"Can you _believe_ it?" asks Sarah. "Of all the places that car might've been thrown…!"

"Twisters'll do some really peculiar stuff," says one of the farmer twins.

"Sure was helpful of ol' Cogswell to leave a hay barn right here," the other adds.

"He might see that different 'bout now," counters his brother.

Sarah leans against Chuck to speak softly in his ear. _"Sweetie, this has_ got _to be the same Corvette from you-know-when—I just_ know _it—it's got more lives than a cat!"_

 _"Amazing,"_ he whispers back, then turns to address the twins. "Do you guys think the car can still be driven?"

"Dunno, but there's a real good mechanic here in Langenkamp. Bet he can set it all right for you. First light tomorrow, we'll send him out this way with a flatbed. An' Mizz Bloom already said y'can stay with her, so whyn't we just head back to town now?"

"I suppose that makes sense. Babe, what do _you_ think—?"

Chuck whirls around in surprise when he realizes that Sarah has already gone to open the trunk. She takes out their suitcase and the precious case packed with Keys, sweeps every bit of hay off them, and holds them high in delight.

"I think _I'm_ ready for a good night's sleep," she announces.

* * *

**In an all-night bar and grill near Washington Reagan National Airport**

Casey knows that sleep won't be an option for a while.

After polishing off three draft beers, starting on a fourth mug, and making six unsuccessful attempts to call Chuck and Sarah, Casey considers his other options. The last flight out to anywhere is long gone, and the next won't be departing for at least five more hours. He could get a hotel room, but he's wide awake— _wired_ —spinning Mazowiecki's and Tameka's and Beckman's revelations around and around again in his mind.

Casey shrugs. The beer is cold and plentiful. The kitchen's still open. For the first time since he came into the bar, he gives his attention to the wide-screen television hanging nearest to his seat. There's a news program, showing ground and aerial clips of widespread tornado damage, somewhere out in the Midwest. He directs his hearing to catch the faint voice-over, turned almost down to zero:

"… _six dead and at least fifty-eight reported injured in northeastern Oklahoma and neighboring areas of Kansas and Missouri…."_

Casey shakes his head at the scenes of raw devastation and picks up his mug of beer.

" _But there's maybe one glimmer of good news in all this, coming out of the small town of Langenkamp, Oklahoma. This report's still not confirmed by authorities, we should note—but we're told by a reliable source that a school bus—full of children!—was rescued—driven out of a tornado's path by a young married couple who happened to be driving by. The mystery couple has not been identified as of yet, but were said to be driving a vintage car—"_

 _(THHLLK!)_ Casey nearly chokes on his mouthful of beer, and gapes at the screen.

"— _and may have been part of a cross-country road rally along old U. S. Route 66. We'll update this story as further details become available…."_

He grabs his iPhone from off the bar and once more calls Chuck's secure phone number.

_("We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time owing to severe weather conditions. We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time….")_

This time, Casey smiles. He opens his _Google Maps_ app to calculate the driving distance and time from Langenkamp, Oklahoma to Chicago: 635 miles; nine and one-half hours. Plenty of time for another few brews….

* * *

**Friday morning, well after dawn**

_(Whubba! Whubba! WHUBB!)—_ the racket of a helicopter flying _very_ low overhead…

Sarah's eyes shoot open and she rolls smoothly out of bed without jolting her drowsy husband. She slips one hand between the mattress and boxspring to grab her pistol— _no gun there? No matter!_ She pivots to a defensive stance in her bare feet, alongside the bed and facing the bedroom door, arms primed as lethal weapons, ready to defend her beloved Chuck against any imminent forced entry!

"G'morning, gorgeous," mumbles Chuck from beneath the bedcovers.

He sits up to fully enjoy the sight of his wife in profile: her beautiful body resplendent in the scanty black-slip nightgown she'd worn on their anniversary night, her _wushu_ bow stance textbook-perfect, her lustrous blonde hair highlighted by the morning sunshine, that sexy deadly determination in her eyes…all that, and the cute blush of total chagrin suddenly flooding her face….

"Oops," she says. "Completely forgot where we were. Sometimes the old spy reflexes can be a real pain in the ass."

Chuck laughs and throws her a loving smile that makes her knees wobble. Sarah sits back down on the bed, and Chuck wraps his arms around her.

"Can't blame you, baby," he says. "That chopper's really obnoxious."

"I'm afraid to ask why there's a helicopter up there in the first place."

"Let's find out." He jumps up—bare-chested, wearing only navy-blue CIA-issue boxer shorts—and pads across the cool polished-wood floor of Darlene Bloom's guest bedroom to the front-facing window. Sarah admires the muscle tone that's becoming more evident on her husband's lanky frame.

"Mmmm…those isometrics are having some effect," she murmurs to herself.

"Huh?"

"Oh…nothing."

Chuck raises the window shade, peers out, and groans…then stands there, transfixed by what he sees, until Sarah comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder in concern.

"Not good?" she asks softly.

"Not good." Chuck steps aside so that Sarah can have a look.

The grassy front yard of Bloom's two-story prairie home extends for several hundred feet out to the graveled lane running in front. Spread out along that road, crowded up against a split-rail fence and staring at the house, are at least two dozen news reporters and cameramen with their satellite trucks and other vehicles parked in the background. The helicopter, still circling, bears the logo of a Tulsa television station. All that stand between Chuck and Sarah and national exposure are a police car parked at Bloom's gate, and a wiry, sandy-haired teenaged boy positioned on her front lawn, menacingly brandishing a garden hose.

"So now what?" Chuck asks, simultaneously alarmed and amused.

Sarah takes a deep breath and stretches.

"It looks stable for the moment—and I smell coffee. Bet there's a serious breakfast to be had downstairs. I expect that'll give you the energy to come up with a clever plan to get us past all those newshounds, sweetie."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, Sarah and Chuck come down to the kitchen, where Darlene Bloom hugs them both and bids them sit down at her big table, beside a sweeping picture window with the shades pulled down and the curtains fully drawn. She places coffee and a platter of freshly baked cinnamon rolls down in front of them.

"These are just for starters," she teases. "I don't get to cook for others much any more, with my kids gone to college. Hope you two are hungry!"

"This is wonderful, thank you!" Sarah exclaims after sampling a cinnamon roll. "But aren't we keeping you from your work? There must be a lot to deal with."

"There will be, but not yet. School's closed for the rest of the week. It is fortunate—and thanks largely to you—that our community wasn't hit very hard."

Sounding more apologetic, she adds, "I'm sure you've noticed the county road's already open… _and_ it brought us some new visitors."

"Yeah, we did," says Chuck, nibbling on a roll. "You must cook a mean breakfast."

Bloom grips his free wrist. "I am so sorry, Charles. I thought everyone understood your desire to remain anonymous. But apparently _someone_ just couldn't hold it in. If I ever find out who it was…"

"Other than the local police, who's that armed guard keeping watch over us outside?" asks Sarah playfully.

"The neighbor's boy Sammy. His little sister Amy was one of the children you saved last night."

"We appreciate all the protection."

"And these cinnamon rolls too," Chuck adds, as he reaches for his second.

"Nobody will get in here," Bloom assures them. "That I will promise. But getting _you_ past _them_ …I'm not sure."

"Maybe a little publicity would be good for our business," Chuck suggests.

Sarah snorts at that. "You know as well as I do that _our_ kind of clientele don't hire celebrity consultants. No, sweetie…we need to make a clean getaway."

"Speaking of that, Darlene…do you know what's become of our car?"

"As a matter of fact, Casper—down at the garage—already called to say your car'll be ready for you before noon. It's been real quiet over by his shop so he hasn't been interrupted."

"Really?" asks Chuck, scratching his chin. "Hmm…you know I could work with that. Baby, d'you suppose I could cobble together an outfit from our things that'd let me blend in with those reporters out there? Maybe a pair of glasses and I'll go stylin' like Clark Kent? We aren't far from his home turf, after all."

Sarah makes a face.

"Reporter, maybe. But Clark Kent—that's just not your look, sweetie."

Chuck shrugs. "Then lucky for me he's not your type."

* * *

**About an hour later**

The flatbed tow truck, with CASPER'S AUTO SERVICE emblazoned on both doors, creeps up the lane toward Darlene Bloom's house. The driver softly toots his horn to encourage the clustered reporters and camera crews to move out of its way. They warily eye the truck and its cargo: a gleaming, freshly washed light-blue sports car.

Chuck, in an official-looking windbreaker and dark sunglasses, has already snuck into the crowd unnoticed. He stands to one side pretending to be occupied with his phone and iPad, while listening to the conversations around him.

" _Hey…that's a Pontiac Firebird! I thought I heard they were driving a Corvette..."_

" _Huh! These hayseed Okies…probably don't know the difference. This has gotta be it. They're gonna make their move. Let's be ready, people!"_

" _Maybe we can rush the gate…?"_

Chuck looks up from his tablet device in concern, but a policeman with the size and build of a defensive tackle emerges from his car, flips open the holster on a big spray can of Mace on his belt, and stations himself at the gate with his massive arms folded across his chest.

The tow truck turns into Bloom's driveway. The driver climbs out to open the gate, while the Langenkamp police officer warns the encroaching reporters to stay clear, and teenaged Sammy fires a few warning sprays from the hose. The truck continues up the driveway and pulls behind the house, out of sight. The helicopter from Tulsa climbs higher and moves over the back yard, while the news teams assembled in front mill around in increasing agitation.

" _Pilot says they just unloaded the car inside the garage…can't see inside there…"_

" _It's okay…they still gotta leave_ this _way."_

Darlene Bloom appears at her front door and shouts at the teenager with the hose.

" _Sammy!_ Son? Would you come here please? I need your help with some suitcases. Don't worry now—Officer Ironmoccasin will keep watch for you for a moment."

Sammy looks to the policeman, who nods and waves toward the house. The tall, skinny teen drops the hose, sprints across the lawn, and enters the house. A moment later, he comes out with a large suitcase and a small suitcase, and carries them around behind the house, as Bloom follows.

Seconds later: the revving of a powerful automotive engine, loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the hovering news helicopter.

" _There they go!"_ Chuck yells as loudly as he can. _"Look—there's a side gate!"_

The Firebird, with its top up and a female driver and male passenger hunched low in their seats, _zooms_ out from the garage behind the house and tears through the grass in the side yard, aimed at a barely noticeable little gate in the fence there. The car _shreeeeks_ hard left onto a two-track road—still muddy from the storm—throwing out a curtain of brown water and dense clods of mud and turf as it turns. The driver regains control and takes off into the cornfields…headed _away_ from Langenkamp.

The helicopter banks sharply in pursuit, as the news crews on the ground stumble and fumble and jump chaotically into their satellite trucks and SUVs. Jockeying dangerously for position, the vehicles in the media caravan bounce onto the muddy, ungraded road, which soon proves to be very, _very_ slow going for vehicles of their size. Only the chopper can keep pace with the Firebird, which races on across the rolling green fields.

Officer Ironmoccasin, shaking his head and chortling, is still standing by the fence in front. A few minutes later, the tow truck rolls out from behind the house and returns to the front gate.

Chuck emerges from his hiding place in the front passenger seat of the police vehicle and waves a salute of thanks to the policeman. Then he climbs up onto the running board on the passenger side of the truck and sticks his head in the open window.

Crouched on the floor in front of the passenger seat and below the dashboard, Sarah grins at her husband. Their suitcase, and the case with the Keys, are there as well.

Chuck gets into the seat, and Sarah crawls up into his lap. The driver reaches across the seat to shake Chuck's hand "Hi—I'm Casper. You must be Mr. Charles. Got your Vette all good to go back at my shop in town, sir. An' I must say, it's a beaut!"

"Thank you, Casper," Chuck replies. "And thanks for coming up with a decoy vehicle on such short notice."

"Waren't much trouble," says Casper. "There's a whole slew of neat ol' cars out back'a my shop. That Firebird's a resto-mod like your Vette. Maybe not quite as fast, but it'll keep those city fools chasin' wild goose 'til you get back on the Interstate."

"And it's a nice joyride for Darlene and Sammy too," observes Sarah. "Wish I could see the looks on those reporters' faces when they finally meet up."

Before long, the Bartowskis get back their Corvette, and once again head northeast on the Interstate, with the midday spring sun at their backs, still on the relict route of the former U. S. Highway 66, leading toward Joplin…St. Louis…and Chicago.

_(Music: "Running for Cover," by Ivan & Alyosha)_

* * *

**But back in Los Angeles….**

_("Something about this so-called 'mystery hero couple' out there on Route 66…it just smells really familiar, y'know?")_

_("Yeah. And it actually_ was _a blue '62 Corvette…wasn't it?)_

_("That's right. Traffic cam caught 'em on I-44 through Joplin, Missouri earlier today. Faces blurry but the driver's a blonde…and there's no mistaking that car.")_

_("Well, starting on the assumption it's a rental or a lease…even in this town there're not too many places you'd find a car like that. I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything, Chrissy.")_

_("Sounds good. Just be careful.")_

The crisply dressed Asian-American woman puts away her phone, gets out of her parked car, makes her way across a busy street—and enters the lot of the same luxury-car rental dealer where Chuck and Sarah found their Corvette. She strides up to the front office and waves an ID card at the rental agent sitting behind the counter.

"Hi…my name's Helena Lee. I'm an investigative reporter with SNN...and I'm here to ask about a car..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No infringement of WB copyright is intended and I don't own Chuck, although there are several scenarios by means of which I could. Or not.

**Saturday morning, in the Burbank Buy More**

Morgan stands before the video wall in the Electronics section of the big-box store. He stares—hands on hips, amazed, amused, and a little proud—as thirty-two different makes and models of high-def flat-panel televisions identically broadcast the trending news story….about the still mysterious _("…no known photos…some even claim it's just a social-media hoax…but some folks in Arizona, New Mexico, and Oklahoma know better….")_ young couple traveling through the heartland in a blue vintage sports car _("…it's a 1962 Mustang I, right? no…a Corvette…or maybe a Firebird?")_ , doing good deeds and helping others all along the way.

"Hello…son." Big Mike's basso voice startles Morgan. He turns to greet the approaching, hefty store manager, who's attired in his usual pale-yellow shirt and green tie.

"Hey Big Mi—uhh… _Dad."_

Big Mike seizes Morgan's right hand and all but lifts him off the ground with his handshake.

"Good to _see_ ya son! How's the girlfriend? You lookin' to buy her a nice new TV? There's a real fine corporate discount plan for family now, y'know—"

Morgan slips his hand free and takes a defensive half-step backward. "No…I'm here 'cause of the voicemail you left at C. I."

" _That?_ Well that was meant for Bartowski, son. Where's _he_ at?"

"Chuck and Sarah are—shall we say—out of town," Morgan replies, puffing up his chest. "For the time being. But as I'm third-in-command at the company, you may consider me their duly designated representative."

Big Mike looks dubious. "That so?"

"Would I lie to my own dear stepfather?" asks Morgan as he slips an arm up around the manager's broad shoulders. Big Mike snorts knowingly…but then shrugs.

"Well…I suppose I can trust you to deliver a package. Got it in my office. C'mon."

Morgan accompanies his dear stepfather to the office in the back. Big Mike sits down at his desk and starts to rifle through a big pile of forms and envelopes on top, while Morgan reacquaints himself with the setting. Big Mike's prized, wounded trophy marlin Norman is again hanging prominently on the office wall, and the sloppy repairs on its broken body are still apparent. A flatscreen TV mounted just beneath the fish is tuned to the same news program as the ones on the video wall, and still running the story about the Route 66 mystery couple.

Big Mike eventually finds a padded manila envelope in the stack on its desk, and passes it to Morgan. It's addressed to Chuck Bartowski, care of the Burbank Buy More. There's no sign of a sender or a return address, but the postmark is from Mannheim, Germany. One end of the envelope is sliced open.

"From Germany…? Hey, maybe it's from Jeff and Lester!" exclaims Morgan. "Heeey—you _opened_ it already!"

"Yep—it is—and of course I did!" Big Mike fires back. "Considering who it came from, I had to make sure it wasn't a bomb or somethin' else that'd mess up the store. 'Cause with those two clowns you never know."

"Point well taken."

Morgan peeks into the envelope and extracts its only contents: a DVD in a jewel case, labeled crudely with a Sharpie: _Cover Demos for Chuck—For Your Eyes and Ears Only._

"Interesting." He scratches his hirsute chin. "Did you play this?"

"Only the first video. It's typical _Jeffster!_ nonsense—some 80s retread—with Patel getting his face all up in the camera. Not worth my time to play the rest of it. I'll leave that to Bartowski. Still can't figure out why this got sent to me in the first place…."

"Well, that's easy enough—they didn't know our new address. Jeff and Lester took off for Germany a couple of weeks before we moved into our new complex—"

" _Complex,"_ scoffs Big Mike. "You mean that ugly ol' office building out there across the parking lot."

"Yes…that… _and_ the veritable maze of secret chambers and passageways that extends beneath your store!"

"Give it up, son. I know for sure there's nothing down there. The gas company even confirmed it when they came out to fix that leak a few weeks ago. So you might as well just retire that crazy story."

Big Mike points his thumb over his shoulder at the TV screen.

"Next thing you'll be tryin' to tell me, it's Bartowski and blondie who're the two that saved those kids out in Oklahoma and all that."

"Even I'm not _that_ crazy," Morgan answers him, with a perfectly straight face.

* * *

**Saturday afternoon, in the suburbs of St. Louis**

_(Music: "I Won't Be Long," by Beck)_

Chuck pulls the Corvette into a big, busy multi-island filling station just off the Interstate, stops at the pump nearest to the exit and farthest from the convenience store, and swiftly emerges from the car to refuel it. From the passenger seat, Sarah—in dark sunglasses with her hair tied up under a kerchief—keeps watch on the scene around them, and especially on a Jeep parked at the next island, with three young and exuberant male passengers. Several of the youths quickly take notice of the beautiful blonde in the gorgeous Corvette, and give them both surreptitious and increasingly long looks, while nudging each other.

Sensing a possible threat, Sarah leans across the center console and—smiling slyly—admonishes her husband, "Pump faster, sweetie."

"I'll do my best," Chuck replies, deadpan—then winks at her.

Sarah's eyebrows lift playfully. "Well, a girl can't ask for more than that."

As soon as the tank is filled, Chuck has the nozzle re-inserted in the pump, the gas tank cover replaced, and the receipt in his hand in just a few seconds.

Meanwhile, the driver of the Jeep—a young woman—has just returned from paying for her gas inside the convenience store. As she starts to climb into her vehicle, one of her passengers murmurs something. The woman glances over the roof of her Jeep toward Sarah and Chuck—and her mouth opens in surprise. She pulls out a smartphone.

" _Chuck…!"_ cries Sarah in alarm.

He's already behind the wheel and starting the engine as the young woman aims the phone at them. A glance to make sure nothing is blocking their escape route—then Chuck gives it the gas, and the Corvette scoots out of the filling station just as the woman snaps the photo.

"Were we busted?" Chuck asks once they are back on the freeway frontage road.

"I'm not sure," replies Sarah. With a self-assured smile, she adds, "It doesn't matter though, because all she could've gotten were the backs of our heads and our bogus plate. So _now_ aren't you glad we stopped at that flea market?"

At Sarah's feet is a plastic grocery sack containing a half-dozen used license plates from different states.

"That was clever, for sure. Learned that trick from your dad, I bet?"

"Yep. Matter of fact, it helped us make a clean getaway with this car the _first_ time."

She grins at the recollection—while Chuck rolls his eyes.

"Like I said, clever. And also illegal. Technically."

Sarah laughs and reaches over with a warm hand to rub the back of Chuck's neck.

"But only if we get pulled over before we reach Chicago. And _you're_ not going to let that happen 'cause you're such a careful driver…am I right, sweetheart?"

With the double dose of Sarah's confident tone and loving touch, Chuck's misgivings evaporate.

"You know you're right." He mirrors her delighted smile, as they return to the anonymity of the Interstate highway.

A moment later his iPhone, resting on the center console, buzzes.

"The secure line," he notes, as Sarah reaches to answer the call. "Is it Morgan?"

"No," she says, evincing surprise. "It's Casey."

* * *

**Fifty minutes later**

After one more stop to change the license plate again, Chuck and Sarah arrive at the Mississippi River waterfront in downtown St. Louis, where the gleaming stainless-steel Gateway Arch stands, 630 feet high. The area around the Arch is full of tourists with cameras, so Sarah gets out of the Corvette at a quiet corner several blocks away and walks off in search of the ticket booth. By himself, Chuck just appears to be an ordinary guy with a fancy car and a New Jersey license plate. He parks in an underground garage without attracting much attention, and goes to meet his wife in the line for the tram ride to the top of the Arch.

The person immediately in line behind Sarah is John Casey, in his preferred black leather flight jacket.

Sarah and Chuck say nothing to Casey and very little to each other. They hold hands, and from time to time turn to each other, grin, and kiss avidly—knowing that it will tease their former partner, who groans louder with each PDA, and eventually turns his back to them. They gradually progress in line toward the boarding area, passing through a security checkpoint and a metal detector. Eventually they are standing in front of one of eight access doors in a line. A tram arrives, and all eight doors _hissss_ open at the same time. The empty tram car in front of Chuck, Sarah, and Casey has five seats. Sarah enters; then Chuck, and then Casey.

The fourth person in line—a T-shirted, goateed stringbean of a tourist who is mostly focused on his smartphone—starts to follow them in. But after a low wolf-like growl and a menacing glare from Casey, he decides to wait for the next tram car. The doors close, and the tram begins to ascend.

"Hello, John," Chuck begins. He looks down to check a custom scanning app running on his iPhone.

"Okay—there's one security cam over Sarah's left shoulder, so keep your faces down. I'm not reading any listening devices. We've got four minutes and forty seconds before we reach the top."

"That's all the time I'll need," says Casey. He sounds irritated. Sarah and Chuck exchange wary glances.

"First…I want to know how the _hell_ you two let Alex get into a direct confrontation with a potentially violent target last week."

"She handled it really well, I think—" replies Chuck.

"That's _beside the damn point!"_ Casey barks back at him.

"We're sorry. It won't happen again," says Sarah, staring laserlike into her former partner's eyes. "We'll be more careful from now on. You have my word on that, John."

"And mine too," adds Chuck.

"All right," says Casey, mostly mollified. "All right then—to the business at hand. I suppose I don't have to tell you that Beckman's had eyes on you since you left L. A."

"Well…it's not like we've gone off the grid this time around," Sarah notes.

"I noticed _that_ much myself."

"And Beckman's already let on," adds Chuck. "She sent us anniversary greetings via Roan Montgomery."

"Well that's _real_ touching," Casey snickers. "But I don't think you know exactly how much the General's been investing in Carmichael Industries lately. Fixing Castle you know. But did you hear about an unexplained drone strike in the Arizona desert right in the vicinity of—"

Chuck turns wide-eyed to Sarah. "Huh! _That_ would explain—"

Casey cuts him off. "Not to mention an urban black-ops EMP assault on your pals at SNN that conveniently erased everything they had on you. _And_ FBI agent Mazowiecki packed off to Alaska for getting too nosy. And who knows what else."

The big Marine folds his arms and waits for a response from his friends.

"So you've been spying on our behalf?" Sarah asks incredulously.

"Just looking out for Alex at first…but yeah. Got me a night in the slammer as Mazowiecki's guest—"

Chuck grimaces and Sarah rolls her eyes.

"…and soon after that, I was invited to a little chat with the General herself. A chat…and a warning. She claims she's just protecting you both—but _my_ gut says you're being set up for something. Beckman wants something from you."

"Did she mention the Intersect?" asks Chuck. "Or the Key?"

Casey shakes his head. "No…but what else could it be?"

"John—there's something _she_ probably doesn't know about," Sarah interjects. "She's got a double agent in her ranks…a woman named Juanita Saldana."

"That's the operative who nearly trapped us in Las Vegas," Chuck adds. "She's a specialist in surveillance tech and exotic weaponry."

"The General didn't mention her."

They all fall silent for a moment, as the tram continues to climb through the girderwork inside the Gateway Arch, and a canned narration for tourists softly drones on inside the car. Then Casey recalls something.

"Exotic weapons, huh? I _did_ have a very brief dustup with a nano-drone on the street in Washington. The General sent a calling card…right before she waylaid me."

"That sure sounds like Juanita's work," says Chuck, and Sarah nods.

"Which puts her mighty close to Beckman already," Casey realizes.

"Right," concurs Sarah. "Apparently, much closer than we thought. And worse, Juanita knows that Chuck's got the Intersect back."

"D'you think she told Beckman that?"

"I doubt it," replies Chuck. "Juanita covets Intersect technology herself, to sell to Silicon Valley. But maybe she deduced the real reason why Sarah and I are headed to Chicago. Though we did figure that making this into a week-long vacation trip with lots of stops would make that less apparent."

"Of course that wasn't the _only_ reason for the road trip," Sarah immediately says, with a telling smile and a hand on her husband's knee.

" _Hmmnh,"_ Casey grunts impatiently. "Two minutes and fifty seconds left. Let's stay on task, okay? Grimes already told me you're transporting Keys to Ellie. What's the objective?"

"To make Intersect neurotech safe for any user," says Chuck. "No more brain-melting. It'll be a tool for teaching and learning, just as our Dad originally intended. A tool that can at last be shared freely and openly."

Casey frowns—and Sarah hurriedly adds, "Just the operating system, of course. Not the government secrets in Chuck's brain."

"That's right," Chuck continues, and taps his forehead. _"Those_ I am going to remove—once and for all—as soon as we accomplish our mission."

He gently shoulder-bumps Sarah. "Then...settle down in Burbank to make some babies."

Sarah shoulder-bumps him back. "Or go through the motions at least."

"Geez, you two!" Casey grimaces. "Your plan for the Intersect sounds all _kumbaya_ and Jimmy Carter to me. But I guess it _would_ once and for all get the monkey off your backs. It's just too bad your sister has to be in it so deeply."

"Ellie's expertise is indispensable," Sarah retorts. "She _wants_ to do this. She knows there's some risk involved."

"And besides, Ellie's already dealt with Justin Sullivan and Daniel Shaw," Chuck points out. (Sarah nods in agreement—but looks mystified at the mention of Shaw.) "After all…she _is_ a Bartowski."

"And now, she's gonna be a _target!"_ Casey fires back. "Once she takes possession of those Keys there's no going back. Both of _you_ are trained to counter any threat—but what about her? And what about her husband and their daughter?"

"My mom is there with them," says Chuck, half-heartedly.

"One retired, aging spy. Terrific." Casey chuckles, then adds, "No offense. But do you really think she's enough to keep 'em all safe if this Saldana skirt decides to make a move on 'em?"

"That's a good point," Chuck admits.

"But _we_ can't be there to protect them ourselves," says Sarah in frustration. "In order to fund her research, Chuck and I have to keep taking on jobs for C. I. At least until the Volkoff funds are restored to us."

"And _that's_ a big if," notes Chuck. He swallows hard. "…What about _you,_ John?"

"What about me _what?"_

"You can watch over Ellie and her lab," continues Chuck. "You could come back and work with us. Just for a few weeks. You were _right there_ when this whole Intersect affair got started. Wouldn't you like to be there for the endgame?"

"Babysitting your sister's not exactly what I'd consider an endgame."

"It won't be babysitting," Sarah presses him. "It's _surveillance_. Counter-measures. Tactics. The kind of stuff you're really good at. Think Costa Gravas. Goya's palace."

Sarah's recollection surprises Casey. "You _remember_ all that?"

"We'll set you up with the resources you need," Chuck quickly offers. "Just name it."

"Salary and benefits, right? Just like before?"

"Oh, absolutely," Chuck swears.

"And who knows," teases Sarah, "maybe Gertrude will even want a piece of the action and show up to help."

"Piece of _something_ anyway," quips Chuck, earning dagger eyes from Casey.

"I mean…isn't it time _she_ chased _you_ for a while, John?" asks Sarah.

"Maybe…yeah…"

Casey grunts reflectively, and then nods. "All right. I'm in. Put me to work."

The Bartowskis grin with elation, slap backs, and shake hands with their old friend and returning partner, as the tram slows to a stop at the apex of the Gateway Arch.

* * *

**Back on the west coast, in Castle**

"Morgan...shouldn't we be leaving this for Chuck to deal with? I mean…it _is_ addressed to him and all that."

Alex's voice is mildly disapproving—but her hands are affectionately squeezing her boyfriend's shoulders, and the gleam of curiosity in her eyes belies her words as she watches Morgan fastidiously pluck the _Jeffster!_ DVD from the padded envelope with two fingers, and carefully slip it into a laptop on a workbench in front of him. She's leaning against the back of his chair, holding a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

Morgan turns his head to look at her as the DVD spins up. Alex reaches around and squirts a generous dose of sanitizer on one of his palms.

"Thanks, baby." He rubs his hands together. "Job one for us is to make Chuck and Sarah's work easier….right?"

"That's right."

The two of them have closed themselves inside the wire-mesh and duct-tape Faraday cage they'd built in Castle four days earlier.

Morgan shrugs. "Okay…so we're tasked with taking care of the trivial stuff and saving them the trouble. So we'll inspect this disk and give them a complete report on it."

"Or…" says Alex knowingly, "quote-unquote 'inspect' it—then simply slip it back into the case as if it was never touched, right?"

"There is that option as well," Morgan replies. He kisses her on the cheek as she leans down alongside him to set the bottle of sanitizer down on the workbench, and she wiggles in delight.

"But do you really think we need to be playing the disk in _here?"_

"I'll admit it's probably overkill, yeah. But Big Mike's right that we can't be too careful when dealing with Jeff and Lester. Especially Lester!"

A playlist of eight songs appears on the laptop screen. Without paying attention to the titles or the sequence, Morgan clicks on the PLAY icon for the first song in the list.

A scene from a grainy, thinly colored 80s-vintage MTV music video materializes: a bookstore window crowded with lurid murder mysteries and crime novels. The slender wrist of a woman, bedecked with several bracelets, reaches down to grab one of the books.

Suddenly, Lester's face appears—shrouded in a red hood and crudely superimposed on the backdrop—and fills the entire screen as he glares at the camera and begins singing in a falsetto that's exceptionally shrill, even for him:

_("You better look out 'cause suspicious eyes are watchin'….Don't let them see us!_

_I know that you and I should not be seen here talkin'...")_

"Ohmigod," says Alex. "What _is_ this?"

"I think it's…it's a _Toni Basil_ cover?" suggests Morgan.

_("I kinda like the razor's edge…."_

Lester tosses his head and winks his left eye, and then his right eye, at the camera.

" _I always think of danger…like to walk a tightrope…")_

"This is all kinds of wrong!" Morgan asserts. "This isn't a _Jeffster!_ -type song at all."

"Why would they record it then?" asks Alex. "What's going on with them?"

Morgan hits PAUSE—then BACK to the playlist.

"I'm beginning to think that we should just leave this little gem for Chuck and Sarah to enjoy, after all."

Alex studies the playlist on the laptop screen—and jolts.

"Morgan…look at the _titles_ of those songs!"

He looks at the list more carefully:

 _Over My Head—_ Toni Basil

 _Private Eyes—_ Hall and Oates

 _Chuck E's In Love—_ Rickie Lee Jones

 _Sara—_ Starship

 _Need You Tonight—_ INXS

 _Bad—_ Michael Jackson

 _Right Here Waiting—_ Richard Marx

 _Somebody's Watching Me—_ Rockwell

"Yeah…some of these are plain strange even for Jeffst— _Hey wait a second!"_

Morgan runs his finger down the screen.

"' _Chuck E' ?...'Sara' ?…'Need You Tonight' !…'Somebody's Watching Me' ?"_

"It's some kind of message for Chuck and Sarah…don't you think?"

"More than that," Morgan replies with certainty. "It's a call for help!"

* * *

**Flashback to that Saturday afternoon in May 1997 in southern California**

_(Music: "Be Quiet and Drive [Far Away]," by the Deftones)_

From the instant she takes hold of the wheel, she loves that blue Corvette.

The whole way south on the I-5, across the sprawl of Orange County, down to the seacoast at Capistrano Beach and past rugged San Onofre Mountain, she grins—unselfconsciously flashing her mouth full of braces again and again—and laughs out loud often, and lets her blonde hair flare out behind her. Nearing San Diego, she takes the car off of the freeway west of Mission Valley, and tools on into the tree-shaded suburban streets on the periphery of the city, still brimming with youthful delight.

Then, as she and her father approach their neighborhood—and her high school—her expression closes up and she goes quiet. Jack realizes that she's mulling something over, and he's pretty sure he knows what she wants.

They stop at a traffic light, and she turns toward him—somewhat hesitantly…

"Dad? Can I drive past the school…just once?"

Jack smiles, having anticipated this. "Sure, darlin'. Just keep right on goin'—"

"Umm—I mean— _by myself?_ Please?"

He looks into his daughter's cute, earnest, hopeful face…and immediately gives in.

"Of course, darlin'. Once we pass this intersection you can just pull over and leave me off there. Don't forget to come back for me."

"I won't!" she says excitedly.

But just as the traffic light changes to green, a police cruiser pulls up to the intersection on the cross street to their right. The patrolman inside has his window rolled down. He gives the blue Corvette a long, hard stare…and then picks up his radio handset.

Alarms go off in Jack Burton's head. His daughter, looking straight ahead and intent on cruising past her classmates in the Corvette, remains oblivious for a few extra seconds—until she catches sight of the police car in the rear-view mirror.

"Are we in trouble?" she asks frantically. "Is he gonna come after us?"

"Only if he gets a stolen-car bulletin. Can't be sure he won't. So darlin', I think we're gonna have to make sure he can't follow us."

To Jack's surprise, she seizes on that suggestion. Her eyes narrow and her breathing amps up. She grips the wheel and executes a clean racing turn left into the next intersecting street—then pushes hard on the accelerator. The Corvette lunges down the side street which—fortunately—is free of other traffic at the moment.

Jack places a hand on his daughter's shoulder to settle her down.

" _Eeeasy_ now, darlin'…let's try something a little more subtle, okay?" He points ahead to the next intersection. "Turn right there—and then the first left—then the first right after that. Don't worry…we'll be in the clear in just a moment."

The teen sighs, "I know where we're going. We've gotta ditch the car, right?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

She shrugs. The Corvette weaves right, left, and right into a busier neighborhood. There's still no sign of the police cruiser behind them. Just up ahead is a full-service car wash.

"In there," Jack instructs. "That car wash! Hurry, darlin'."

They _squeeeal_ off the street and come to an abrupt stop in the entrance lane. Their luck is holding: no line of vehicles in front of them, and the young attendant is already coming their way.

" _Get your things and head for the waiting room,"_ Jack whispers in his daughter's ear, _"then duck out the back door soon's you see your chance. I'll catch up to you at home. I'm really sorry about the school thing, darlin'."_

She beams at him. "It's okay, Dad. It was fun while it lasted." She gets out of the car, leaving the driver's side door open, lifts her grey duffle bag out of the back, and saunters off toward the waiting room. Jack smiles wryly and grabs the car keys before he too leaves the Corvette behind. He slips on a pair of very dark sunglasses.

The approaching car-wash attendant doesn't notice how Jack carefully wipes the keys against the fabric of his slacks before he hands them over—with the key ring hanging at the very tip of his pinky finger.

"Afternoon, sir," says the attendant, his eyes on the Corvette. "What a beauty!"

"You said it," Jack replies as the youth takes the keys. "Okay…so I want the full-service, and you make sure you give the whole interior a real good cleaning and wipe-down. _Real_ good. I want all that leather to just gleam. You got that, son?"

The attendant nods eagerly and hands Jack a ticket that won't ever be paid.

Jack chuckles to himself as he strides toward the waiting room, confidently divested of the stolen car. Already inside, his blonde seventeen-year-old daughter presses her face to the window, giving that dreamy blue '62 Corvette one last longing look as the attendant drives it into the wash.

_(Music: "Be Quiet and Drive [Far Away]," by the Deftones, fades away…)_

* * *

**Flash forward to the present Saturday night, in a rental-car return lot near Chicago-O'Hare Airport**

Just after dusk, in a light, cool breeze that warns of a chilly night to come, Sarah and Chuck stand alongside the blue Corvette for the last time. They'd deliberately parked in the middle of the return lot—seeking anonymity among endless Toyota Corollas, Ford Fusions, and Chevy Malibus—but even here, even under the homogenizing yellow glow of overhead lamps, their ride for the past adventurous week stands out.

Sarah has the keys in her hand. She leans forward through the open driver's-side window to scan the interior of the Vette one last time and make sure they'd left nothing important inside. Chuck has their luggage at his feet, and his iPhone pressed to one ear.

"Ellie and Awesome are on their way with the minivan," he softly says to his wife. "Said they'll be here in five minutes or less. We have to meet 'em at the front gate."

"Copy that." Sarah nods and withdraws from the Corvette. "You know—even after everything that's happened this past week—the most amazing thing for me was getting this car…this _same_ car…."

Chuck hears the faint wistfulness in Sarah's voice. He stuffs the iPhone in his pocket and takes her in his arms.

She nestles close to him and continues, "It's almost like we… _I_ …was given a chance to…well, you know, _make up_ for the last time. Does that sound crazy?"

"I don't know, babe. But there's no question that you did just that."

Sarah turns her gaze up into Chuck's eyes. "You mean _we_ did. Together. You always bring out the best in me, Charles Irving Bartowski."

"And you in me, Sarah Lisa Walker Bartowski."

They kiss in celebration of their epic road trip, and in assurance of the strength of their bond. Then Sarah slips her arm in Chuck's, they each grab hold of a bag with their free hands, and they saunter away across the lot to go meet Ellie and Devon.

"And wow," says Sarah fervently, "after the week we've just had, I'm sure hoping this'll be nothing more than a nice, quiet, relaxing visit with the family."

"Roger that, babe," Chuck concurs.

_(Music: A few bars of the "Route 66 Theme," by Nelson Riddle and His Orchestra, play softly as Chuck and Sarah walk off, and the scene fades to black.)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, but it's on my wish list.

**Monday morning, in the Neuroimaging Laboratory at the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern University**

The spacious room is chilly and Chuck and Sarah are dressed in nothing other than borrowed forest-green hospital scrubs—his are baggy; hers more form-fitting—and slippers. Sarah, standing in front of her husband, presses herself back against him, seeking a little extra warmth. They're both listening to Ellie as she explains the functional MRI scans they're about to undergo.

"…and while you're in the scanner you'll be shown sequences of images that are designed to prompt very specific mental processes…"

Hyper-perceptive spy Sarah notes the subtle jump in Chuck's breathing rate, which tells her that he's trying extra hard to stay focused on Ellie's words, and not to respond to his wife's intimate contact. Sarah smiles—and mischievously, wriggles a couple of times.

"You just follow them with your eyes as we image your brain functions…."

Just in front of them, a late-model GE clinical magnetic resonance imaging scanner throbs in readiness: a light-grey, thick-walled tubular chamber about the size of Ellie's minivan, with a blinking power-supply panel on one side and a sliding bed protruding partway from the business end. On the bed is propped a vaguely sinister-looking plastic helmet, which has dozens of thin cables protruding from it in all directions, and an attached set of virtual-reality goggles.

Ellie is attired in slacks and a lavender-colored lab coat, with her name and title embroidered over the breast pocket and a key-card ID on a lanyard around her neck. She has an iPad in one hand.

"And it's just done with magnetic fields—perfectly harmless, no X-rays or other ionizing forms of radiation—"

Sarah laughs out loud and says, "It's okay, Ellie—I know. In my previous line of work I occasionally needed to have MRIs done on one part or another."

Chuck rolls his eyes knowingly, and Ellie grins. Then a clinical technician appears from the adjacent control room, draws the sliding bed completely out of the scanner chamber, and holds up the helmet.

"So who's going first, Dr. Woodcomb?" she asks.

Ellie consults her iPad. "That would be my brother. His program's queued up first."

She heads into the control room and gestures for Sarah to join her. The two Bartowski women—the physician and the spy—take seats in front of a console crowded with computers and monitor screens.

 _(Music: "These Shadows," by Wooden Shjips)_  

* * *

_(Staked out in a hotel suite a few blocks away, seated at his own set of monitors, Casey lights a Cuban and methodically takes everything in—having already planted several micro cameras around the lab.)_

* * *

Chuck goes to the MRI scanner. Following the technician's instructions, he lies down on his back on the bed. The tech straps the cable-studded helmet over his head and slips the VR goggles—actually a paired set of small high-def screens—into position over his eyes.

"You comfy enough, Mr. Bartowski?" she asks.

"Oh, absolutely. This helmet and goggles must make me look kinda like Cyclops, don't they?"

"Not Cyclops," the tech replies. "More like Medusa, with all those wires running out the sides and back."

"Oh—no, I meant the Cyclops who's one of the…umm, never mind."

The tech pushes a button that starts him rolling slowly, head first, into the MRI scanner. The bed stops moving when Chuck is in the chamber just past his shoulders. He flashes a thumbs-up sign in the direction of the control room. The tech pats him on the arm and takes a watchful position one step back from the scanner.

" _Okay now, Chuck,"_ comes Ellie's voice over a loudspeaker. _"We're gonna start the sequence. Focus on the screens please."_

The scanner begins to hum and whir.

In the control room, Ellie enters a few commands on a keyboard. Three big monitors _poink!_ to life. One reports Chuck's vital signs and other biomedical data; another shows a large digital map of Chuck's brain with different colors to indicate its regions and functions; and the third begins to display a series of disjoint images—similar to an Intersect upload but at a much slower speed.

Ellie notices immediately that Sarah is studiously avoiding any glances at the third screen.

"Sorry," she murmurs, and tilts the monitor slightly so that it's just out of her sister-in-law's direct line of sight. "This room is soundproofed. We can speak freely in here."

"That screen"—Sarah points with her chin toward the third monitor—"that's showing what Chuck is actually seeing in the VR goggles right now?"

"Correct. Now Sarah…of course the main reason for wanting you both here is so we can be sure there are no residual traumas from your encounters with the Intersect—your brief acute one, as well as Chuck's chronic exposure—"

"But…there's more you can learn from us, isn't there?"

Ellie nods. "Yes, there is. You and Chuck responded completely differently to Intersect uploads—even taking into account that yours was tainted—and that means two very distinct data sets that'll be extremely helpful in figuring out how to render this whole process harmless for all."

"So what are you finding out from Chuck right now?"

"Hmm." Ellie turns her attention back to the monitors. Unseen by Sarah, the images on the third monitor are cascading by at an increasingly rapid rate.

"At this point we're mostly recording data that'll undergo much more careful scrutiny later. But…wow…one thing I can see already is that Chuck's brain is outpacing our system's capacity to feed it visual data."

"Are you _serious?"_

"My kid brother's definitely something special," replies Ellie, sounding almost awed.

"You're sure this isn't dangerous?" Sarah asks, her face showing concern.

"Not in the least." Ellie points to the second screen. "Not according to the fMRI and the biomonitors. His brain functions and vitals are all nominal. And we're gonna switch to a less intense cognitive prompt in…exactly…twelve seconds."

Sarah nods in understanding—but reaches for the microphone anyway.

" _Are you all right in there, sweetie?"_

Through the window, they see Chuck raise his right hand and give the "okay" sign.

Sarah puts down the mike and looks back at Ellie with a sheepish grin. "Sorry…but you know me."

"No problem," Ellie assures her. "You've always protected him, and I wouldn't expect that to change."

"Not ever."

"And I'm…very, very appreciative of that, Sarah."

The two good friends smile at each other, then sit quietly as the barrage of images ceases and the neuroimaging test continues with a slower spatial-visualization exercise.

"Ellie…?" asks Sarah after a little while.

"Mm-hmm ?"

"Chuck told me that his…that _your_ …father was the same way he is…had that same amazing capacity to learn and retain coded images. Have _you_ ever wondered if you have that capacity yourself?"

"Sure I have," Ellie replies with a smile. "More than once. But I've got no desire to put it to the test. Two superheroes are enough for one family, I think."

She pauses, cocks her head, and puts a hand on Sarah's shoulder. "At least…unless and until they decide to have a child or two."

"Yeah. Well, as Chuck and I like to say—one mission at a time."

"I hear you!" says Ellie fervently. "It's a big step, and there's plenty on your plate right now as it is."

* * *

**Half an hour later**

_(Music continues: "These Shadows," by Wooden Shjips)_

Now the roles are reversed: Sarah is lying in the MRI scanner with the helmet and goggles on, and Chuck is sitting with Ellie in the control room. If Sarah was concerned about the effects of the neuroimaging tests on her husband, Chuck is flat-out worried about what they might do to his wife.

"Maybe I should be out there with her," he says, staring intently through the control-room window. "I know she was sorta tense about doing these tests."

"You can if you want," Ellie tells him, "but Sarah'll be fine. You can keep an eye on her vital signs right here." She points to the first monitor screen. Chuck moves his chair closer to that side of the console for a better view.

"I'm going much easier on her than I did on you, just because," Ellie continues. "I'm not so much testing Sarah as just making sure she's continuing to recover from the trauma she sustained."

Chuck nods. "It'd probably help if we knew exactly what Quinn did to turn her."

"Well, I already have a pretty good idea. I think he contrived some way to force her to flash, again and again and again. We already knew from Morgan how that could suppress long-term memory."

"Yeah…I thought it might be something like that too. Do you think it was painful?" Chuck's own face shows distress, as awful scenes suddenly flood his imagination.

"I'm not sure," Ellie lies—but fails to fool Chuck, who looks even more stricken. She leans over in her chair to hug and reassure her brother.

"You know that Sarah doesn't remember any of it, Chuck. I seriously doubt she ever will. She's an incredibly resilient woman, and you can be sure that your love and care have helped her recover."

His face brightens some. "Thanks, Sis."

Ellie gives him another hug, then pulls away and points to the screen that he had been monitoring.

"You might want to watch what happens next. I inserted a very brief Intersect-like image cascade into her visual feed—so brief it'll be subliminal to Sarah, but long enough to get a read on how well her mind has rebounded. Keep an eye on her vital signs—it's coming up in three…two…one…"

The system issues a faint _ping!,_ and out of the corner of one eye, Chuck catches sight of the embedded image cascade on the third screen: an infinitesimal burst of light and color that even he can't resolve. Half a second later, in the data stream on the first screen, he sees his wife's heartbeat, breathing, and body temperature momentarily spike—and then, almost as quickly, relax back to their prior calm state.

Ellie crosses her arms and nods once, in satisfaction.

"What does _that_ mean?" Chuck asks her.

"That means that Sarah has, in fact, pretty much healed in mind and body from whatever damage was caused by her buggy Intersect upload. I noticed just now that she's still uncomfortable looking at rapidly flashing images, but this result shows they're not actually hurting her any more."

Pleased but confused, Chuck can only mutter, "Wow…"

"She could probably even handle another upload—a clean one of course—not that I'd recommend it, or that there's any good reason for her to do it."

"So what were those images you just fired at her?"

"I was _hoping_ you would ask that!" crows Ellie. "Remember when we were going to try and save Sarah's memories by having her upload happy events from her life with you?"

"How could I forget _that?"_

"Well, even though you had to use that final upload on yourself to save the day, I tried playing around with the idea in the lab…just in case we ever—"

Chuck laughs and swats his forehead. "Don't tell me!"

"Yep. Sarah just got 800 milliseconds of your wedding album! I figured it'd be sort of a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. And as we both saw, her mental and somatic responses were perfectly…perfectly… _uh-oh!"_

A soft chime begins to sound. Sarah's vital signs are spiking again—and in the scanner room, the technician is frantically giving the " _cut off!"_ sign with a hand across her neck! Ellie hurriedly shuts down the test sequence. Chuck sprints out of the control room.

"Babe? _Babe!"_

* * *

_(The cigar drops from Casey's suddenly open mouth. Unsure of what's happening but concerned for his friends, he stares hard at his monitor screens….)_

* * *

Without waiting for the mechanism to do it gradually, the tech yanks the sliding bed out of the scanner. Sarah sits up awkwardly—still wearing the cabled helmet and the goggles—and leans forward, trying to get her head lower. Chuck—wide-eyed with fear—reaches his wife's side, unsnaps the helmet, and lifts it off her head. The goggles fall off, and the tech catches them before they hit the floor.

Sarah leans forward the rest of the way, lowering her head between her legs as they dangle off the side of the bed. Chuck takes hold of her hand and tries to look into her eyes.

"Babe—what's the matter? What's _wrong?"_

" 'S nothing…I'm okay…just got a little dizzy…nauseous all of a sudden…I'm okay, I'm okay…."

"Are you going to throw up?" He scans around desperately for anything in the vicinity that could serve as a basin.

"N-no…don't think so now…moment ago maybe…" She gingerly lifts her head and smiles wanly at Chuck. "I'm all right, sweetie…really. Sorry I scared you like that."

"That wasn't supposed to happen!" insists Ellie, who has just joined them. She steps close to Sarah, feels her forehead and checks her pulse, and then stares long and carefully into her eyes before asking, "How do you feel now?"

"Better—now that I'm sitting up," Sarah replies. "Give me a moment and then we can continue with the tests."

"No, no," urges Chuck, looking to his sister for support.

"Absolutely not!" Ellie concurs. "No more neuro work until we figure out _exactly_ what just happened here. Sarah, once you feel up to it, let's go over to an exam room and I'll give you a quick physical. Then you and Chuck can change back into your street clothes, and I'll take you downstairs to Clinical for a full blood panel."

Sarah protests, mildly. "But really, I'm—"

"Chillax, baby." Chuck gently massages her back between her shoulder blades. "You heard the doctor's orders. We can finish this later. C. I.'s already booked plenty of machine time just in case."

* * *

**Shortly thereafter, in an examination room near Ellie's office**

Ellie leaves after giving Sarah an abbreviated physical exam and finding nothing out of the ordinary. Then Chuck and Sarah change out of the green hospital scrubs, without saying much to each other. But when they are partway done and both in their undies, Sarah shoots her husband a come-hither look. They hold each other close for a moment.

"That's just 'cause we can," she tells him, before they resume putting on their clothes. "And especially 'cause you're so cute like that."

Chuck grins and puckers his lips at her.

" _Mwah._ And ditto, though in your case I would say smokin' hot. Guess you're feeling better, huh?"

"I am. I'm beginning to think it could've been a little bout of vertigo, from wearing those damn VR goggles."

"Vertigo? _You?"_ Chuck says incredulously. "The CIA's ninja acrobat?"

Sarah shrugs. "It could happen. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, Chuck."

Two minutes later they are out in the corridor and headed for Ellie's cramped office, packed with workstations and cluttered bookcases. Just below an oblong window that offers a view of Lake Michigan is a small folding crib with blankets and toys—unoccupied at the moment but ready for an occasional visit by her little daughter.

Ellie sits at her desk, her lavender lab coat slung casually over the back of her chair, going through her e-mails when Sarah and Chuck come into the office.

"Okay then—ready for the blood draw?" she asks brightly, turning away from her screen. "How are you feeling now, Sarah?"

"I'm fine, Ellie. Fine…really," replies Sarah, trying not to sound peeved.

Ellie gets up and slips on her lab coat. Just then, there is a knock on her office door.

"Huh? I wasn't expecting anyone," she mutters as she goes to open the door, and is surprised to see a middle-aged female physician in a lavender coat like hers, with a stethoscope hanging from her neck. The woman takes a half-step into Ellie's office.

"Good morning, Doctor Woodcomb," she says in a friendly way, peering past Ellie to get a look at Chuck and Sarah. "And are these folks the family you said were coming to visit?"

"That's right; I was just showing them around the neuro labs." She turns toward Chuck and Sarah as they approach. "This is my brother Chuck and his wife Sarah. Sarah, Chuck…this is Doctor Carmen Silberblatt—she's the Dean of our med school."

They all shake hands. Chuck, closest to the door, notices that there's someone else out in the hallway just behind Dean Silberblatt. But all he can see are two big feet in stylish black men's shoes—resting in the footplates of a wheelchair.

"I'm actually here on a mission," Silberblatt announces. "An old colleague of mine flew in today from Stanford to give this afternoon's colloquium presentation. And he specifically asked to meet you…."

Chuck softly gasps and nudges Sarah.

The man—bald, broad-shouldered, wearing wire-frame glasses—rolls his wheelchair into the doorway and smiles genially up at everyone.

"… _so may I introduce Professor George Fleming?"_

Fleming eagerly seizes Ellie's hand and pumps it. "Very pleased to meet you, Doctor Woodcomb! And hello…Well, I'll be damned! It _is_ really you—Chuck and Sarah both!"

"You _know_ them?" asks Silberblatt in amazement.

" _Know_ them!" booms Fleming. "Chuck, here, was a student of mine at Stanford about ten years ago—a _superlative_ student, at that! And…I've also had the good fortune to meet his most impressive bride, Sarah, once before."

"That's truly amazing!"

"Indeed it is. It's because of the connection to her brother—as well as her own scientific reputation, of course—that I wanted to come introduce myself to Doctor Woodcomb! Little did I know the _whole family_ would be present!"

" _Yeah right,"_ Sarah whispers in Chuck's ear.

* * *

_(Casey gapes at the video feed from Ellie's office, swears explosively, and leaps up from his chair. He dons a jacket, slips a gun into the inside pocket, and swiftly exits his hotel room.)_

* * *

More flabbergasted than his wife is, Chuck numbly shakes Fleming's proffered hand. "Hello, Professor."

"Have you forgotten already? It's George, son…call me George!"

"This sure is a lucky coincidence," Sarah says, faintly icily. She stands alert and keeps her distance from Fleming.

Silberblatt claps her hands and rubs them together excitedly.

"Oh, this is just _perfect!"_ she gushes. "I usually take our visiting speakers out for dinner after the colloquium—but I've just had something urgent come up for tonight. I was going to ask a couple of the residents…but Ellie, why don't _you_ and Chuck and Sarah host Professor Fleming tonight?"

"But…but…" Ellie stammers, looking nervously to her brother, hoping for a signal as to how she should respond. But he's as much at a loss as she is.

"Dinner's on the School of course," the dean continues. "Take him some place nice."

"Uh, I'm not sure…I think we already made plans…"

Unexpectedly, Sarah's coolish demeanor flip-flops and she seizes the situation.

"I think that's a _great_ idea! Sweetie, what d'you say? It'd sure be nice to catch up on stuff with your old prof… _hmmm?"_

Chuck blinks twice in confusion but follows Sarah's lead. "Uh…sure. Sure. It'll be a blast." He reaches forward and taps Fleming on the shoulder.

"Splendid!" replies the professor. "I look forward to some lively conversation tonight! Thank you for this opportunity, Carmen."

"Oh, it's my pleasure, George." Silberblatt steps back into the hallway and gives Ellie, Chuck, and Sarah a little goodbye salute.

"We're off now—but see you at colloquium this afternoon, Ellie. Oh—and Chuck and Sarah, you're more than welcome to attend. And it was very nice to meet you both."

After Silberblatt and Fleming have disappeared down the corridor, Ellie shuts her office door, leans back against it to steady herself, and looks at her brother and sister-in-law with alarm. They're both already over their initial astonishment and now look rather calm—unnervingly so, as far as Ellie is concerned.

"What the _hell?_ What is _he_ doing here _now?"_ she demands.

"I'm sure he wants intel on what we're doing here with you," responds Chuck, as Sarah nods vigorously in agreement.

"Then why—why are we _going out to dinner with him_ for gosh sakes?

"Because you always keep your friends close…." Sarah begins, smiling sagely.

"…And your enemies closer," Chuck adds. "We might get some good intel ourselves."

* * *

**Three-forty p.m., in the Feinberg School's main lecture hall**

"… _which leads us to examine the potential effects of such visually sourced, acute cognitive overload on a susceptible individual's short-term and long-term memory…."_

The classic, amphitheater-style lecture room seats several hundred people. This afternoon the seats are filled, and colorfully: with dozens of interns and residents in white lab coats, a sprinkling of staff physicians in grey lab coats, and a goodly number of medical research faculty in their lavender lab coats—including Ellie, who sits nearly dead center in the room, with Chuck and Sarah seated just beside her. They're the only two people in the audience who are not wearing lab coats.

"… _our work actually suggests that in certain cases, such neurologically traumatic overloads can actually be triggered…when a subject is somehow compelled or forced to uptake images that cascade or alternate at a rate no less than…"_

Down below—center stage in his wheelchair—Professor Fleming, a skilled and experienced university lecturer, is wholly in his element: projecting his words in a resonant tone boosted by a clip-on microphone; flicking a hand-held remote to put up slide after PowerPoint slide, each one dense with diagrams and tables; and using a green laser pointer to single out particularly important graphic elements and texts on the slides.

Fleming's lecture topic and his style of delivery have captured the audience—nobody is dozing, and all of the smart devices in view seem to be in use for taking notes, rather than checking email or Facebook. Except for the ones Chuck, Sarah, and Ellie have out—they're using theirs to communicate by encrypted text messages.

"… _consequently there is a statistically significant probability that this could result in severe retrograde dissociative amnesia and consequent identity-related personality disorders of various types…."_

(Invisible to everyone else in the room, Fleming has a pin on his suit jacket with a nano digital camera, aimed at Chuck, Sarah, and Ellie. While they watch him, he is spying on them.)

"… _an unusually acute amnesia that may—or may not!—spontaneously reverse itself given sufficient time for the brain and mind to heal…."_

Chuck leans forward to conceal his iPhone screen from those around him, and types: _Bet he's got eyes on us?_

Sarah texts back: _Pretty safe bet_

Chuck adds: _Only get half of this but snds like he's talking about what hpnd to Sarah_

Instinctively, he puts a hand on his wife's knee and squeezes it three times: _You okay?_

Sarah keeps her eyes on Fleming, but lays her hand over Chuck's and caresses it in a slow circular motion: _Thanks—I'm okay._

Fleming lectures on: _"…possible therapeutic responses to the neurological trauma…"_

Ellie texts: _Yes hes talking abt it in detail. Just short of mentioning the you know what. Hows he know abt all this?_

Sarah replies: _Juanita. So is he taunting us?_

Ellie replies: _Maybe, or some kind of message to us._

Chuck observes: _Good we're recording lecture._

Sarah comments: _Gonna be some dinner date 2nite!_

…and all three of them chuckle softly. They don't hear the low but mildly exasperated grunt uttered from the far end of the last row of seats above them—where Casey is hunkered down in a pilfered, two-sizes-too small white lab coat. The grunt means he knows he'll have to pose as a bartender or a waiter yet again….

* * *

**That evening, at an upscale restaurant in Chicago's Near North Side**

_(Music: "Hypnotic Regression," by Girls Names)_

The attractive young hostess insists on wheeling Professor Fleming herself, into the restaurant and over to the table already reserved for his party. He eats the attention up. Ellie follows them, and Sarah and Chuck—arm-in-arm as usual—bring up the rear of the procession.

"Wow, this is sure nice," Chuck remarks, feigning excitement, as he and Sarah reconnoiter the place with practiced eyes as they walk.

"I've never actually been here," says Ellie. "I asked the Dean's admin assistant to pick a place and make the reservation for us."

They arrive at their table, in a quiet back corner of the cozy, busy restaurant. It's polished butcher-block wood, with a flickering lantern centerpiece, and encircled by four plush upholstered chairs.

Sarah and Chuck pause a half-step from the table to let Fleming take the most accessible chair—which also allows them to sit with their backs to the wall. The hostess pulls the professor's chair out for him. He uses his muscular arms to swing himself smoothly out of the wheelchair and into his seat. Then Chuck holds the chairs out for his sister and his wife, before seating himself between them. The three Bartowskis face Fleming across the table.

"I'm very sorry your husband couldn't join us, Doctor Woodcomb," Fleming says. "A physician too—am I correct?"

"Yes. But we have a little girl—a toddler—at home."

"I see. Is she your only child?"

"Yes."

"Very good. My thanks to your husband for making it possible for you to join me tonight."

"I'll pass that on," notes Ellie, smiling politely at him. "At any rate it'd hardly be collegial not to host you—especially after you gave us such a well-received talk. You really packed the auditorium this afternoon."

"Thank you," Fleming responds with a little bow of his head. "Just basic research…nothing all that groundbreaking. Not yet anyway."

Their server appears at the table to pass out menus. It's Casey, all but unrecognizable in a well-trimmed fake mustache and beard, glasses, and a full-length kitchen apron. Chuck looks into Casey's face as he takes a menu, to acknowledge his partner's presence.

"I'm also grateful—and relieved—that you, Chuck and Sarah, also agreed to come to dinner." Fleming gestures toward them, grinning puckishly. "I was certain that after our last meeting, you'd want nothing more to do with me!"

"Oh, _you're_ harmless enough, George," retorts Sarah, in a tone of voice that quickly goes from light to dark as she continues, "But your associate—she's something else. With all her high-tech toys and schemes, she's really nothing more than a creepy stalker, wouldn't you say?"

"And we don't appreciate it," Chuck adds. "Perhaps _you'd_ be kind enough to pass _that_ on."

Surprised by Sarah and Chuck's uncloaked comments, Fleming leans forward across the table and nods in Ellie's direction.

"So you've read your sister in?" he asks…then laughs. "Well of course you have—she _is_ Stephen Bartowski's daughter after all. And she's been part of your operation in the past, so why not now?"

Ellie gives Fleming a stony look. He ignores it, instead picking up and leafing through the wine list.

"Just as well," he goes on, without looking up. "It means we'll be able to talk more openly, which is my preference. But first—may I choose a wine befitting this unique occasion? You may recall from your Stanford days, Chuck, that we northern Californians have our pretensions about that sort of thing."

* * *

**At the same time, near Ellie's office at the Feinberg School of Medicine**

_(Music continues: "Hypnotic Regression," by Girls Names)_

After hours, it's unusual to see a medical technician on this floor of the sprawling medical complex, which is occupied mostly by research faculty. But this statuesque, raven-haired woman, serious-looking in owlish eyeglasses, wearing the requisite pale-blue coat and lanyard ID, is wheeling a cart full of what look like thermos canisters of tissue specimens, clustered under a white cloth shroud. So nobody gives her a second look.

_Even if someone did, who would recognize her as CIA Special Agent Juanita Saldana?_

Near the doorway to Ellie's office, Saldana pauses and checks that she's alone in the hallway. She lifts the shroud on the cart. Her iPad is nestled amidst the thermos canisters there. She twists the lid on one of the canisters, activating a small low-power radar scanner concealed inside it—and a live 3-D view of Ellie's locked office appears on her iPad screen.

Saldana expertly operates the scanner to navigate virtually around the office, hunting for surveillance devices. In seconds she has located three micro spy cams: two visual-light and one infrared. She chuckles.

" _Ay, Colonel Casey,"_ she murmurs. _"You must do much, much better than that…."_

She enters a command on the iPad screen, sending the location data from the radar scan to another of the canisters on the cart. An LED on the side of the canister blinks on—yellow—and a second later, turns to green. The lid of the canister pops open…and three drone spyders crawl out. The body of each eight-legged spyder is jet-black, dime-sized in diameter and not much thicker than a dime; and each has a tiny high-def screen embedded in its abdomen. The three devices skitter down the side of the cart and across the floor, then sprawl their legs to slip smoothly through the quarter-inch gap between Ellie's office door and the floor.

The spyders crawl up the walls in deep shadow, optically and thermally invisible. Within seconds, each has homed in on one of the spy cams Casey had earlier planted in Ellie's office. The spyders pounce at lightning speed, each pressing the screen in its abdomen against the lens of a spy cam—and interposing a false image of a quiet, undisturbed, darkened room.

Out in the hallway, Saldana's iPad reports that Ellie's office is secured. She carefully rolls the shroud back over the top of the cart, and reaches into her pocket for a standard-issue digital master key that will give her immediate access to the room.

* * *

**Meanwhile, at the restaurant**

Casey pours the wine—a Las Alturas Vineyard pinot noir deemed "intriguing" by Fleming—for all four guests at the table. Fleming hoists his glass as if to propose a toast, but stops and looks cryptically at Chuck and Sarah.

"Before we toast and then enjoy this fine wine, I'd like to offer a helpful little proposition," he says.

"Don't you have that kind of backwards?" asks Ellie.

"Not in this case, my dear Ellie," the professor continues, in a more subdued voice. "Is it all right if I call you that, by the way?"

"Uh…sure. Of course it's all right."

"Thank you. What I mean is that there is a high probability that your brother and sister-in-law are aware that I have on my person a listening device—I'm wired, if you will."

He glances over at Chuck and Sarah, whose expressions betray nothing.

"And I am also carrying a sensor that tells me the exact same fact about both of them. So we have a spy standoff."

Chuck grins. "And so much for the Stanford honor code."

Fleming laughs, deeply enough so that he has to hurriedly set his glass back down on the table to avoid spilling it. Meanwhile, Casey, who had been hovering near their table, takes a few steps farther back to get his own "bug" out of Fleming's detector range.

"Very good _—heh!—_ Chuck, very good. But hardly conducive to honest discussion, let alone pleasant conversation. So my proposition is this: I'll turn mine off if you'll both turn yours off. Do we have a deal? Here…I'll go first." He reaches inside his suit jacket and manipulates a hidden switch that makes a faintly audible _click!_

Then he waves a hand at Chuck and Sarah. "Go ahead, check your detectors if you want. I'm offline! And waiting for you."

Sarah looks to Chuck. He shrugs. After a few seconds of embarrassed fumbling in their seats, they find it easier to just reach into the other's clothing and deactivate each other's listening devices.

From his position not far away, Casey grunts and rolls his eyes.

Gallantly—though with an amused grin—Fleming looks away from Sarah and Chuck until they have finished. Then he scoops up his glass of pinot noir once more.

"Wonderful! Now the toast."

Ellie, Sarah, and Chuck, feeling more and more flummoxed by the professor's eccentricities, slowly raise their own glasses.

"To the Bartowskis! The _first family of the Intersect!"_

Although Fleming spoke softly enough for his words to be swallowed by the ambient din of the bustling restaurant, Sarah and Chuck involuntarily wince at hearing the still-secret weapon mentioned by name in a very public place.

"Truly a thrill for me to be here with you _all_ in one place," Fleming continues, while thrusting his glass forward to clink against the others. He takes a sip of the wine, eyes shut with pleasure, then gazes into his glass, obviously pleased with his choice.

In contrast, Sarah is all business. She puts down her glass after taking the barest of sips, and leans forward to confront Fleming.

"Now that we can have the 'honest discussion' you were after, George…what is it exactly that you wanted to discuss?" she presses him.

"Why… _you_ …of course, my dear Ms. Bartowski."

" _Sarah?"_ Chuck blurts out.

"Yes—Sarah. Or, more specifically: how, together, we can ensure Sarah's future well-being—perhaps even her _sanity_ —before it becomes too late!"

* * *

**Back in Ellie's office**

_(Music continues: "Hypnotic Regression," by Girls Names)_

Saldana works slowly and deliberately, confident that she won't be discovered. In the dark, with her owl-eye glasses set to night vision, she wheels Ellie's desk chair into the middle of the office, surrounded by all of Ellie's working clutter. She reprograms the scanner on her cart to make a finely detailed, ceiling-to-floor scan of the entire room and its contents, then sits down with her iPad in her lap to monitor the results.

Every time the scanner encounters any kind of electronic device, whether it is out in plain sight or concealed in a cabinet or drawer, it peers deeply into that device and constructs a complete three-dimensional map of its circuitry; and then compares that pattern with all those in the CIA's and NSA's full online databases of common, obscure, and clandestine devices. Thus, in the process of hunting down her specific target, Saldana must unwillingly take inventory of every computer, smart device, and medical instrument Ellie has stashed in here. Even the digital wall clock gets a quick once-over by the scanner. It's tedious, but Saldana can afford to be patient.

And finally, when the scanning beam has progressed almost three-quarters of the way down through the office, it comes upon a reinforced case—holding five identical, quarter-sized digital devices—hidden behind a shelf of books. Saldana perks up and waits eagerly for the circuitry analysis to run. It comes back in fewer than two seconds: the 3-D map—detailed enough to allow a functional copy to be created—and the verdict: 99.955% PROBABILITY OF MATCH….

 _Un éxito rotundo!_ Saldana shivers with excitement.

She doesn't need to actually look upon one of the devices. But she can't resist. She dons gloves, slides the secured case out from behind the books, and inspects it meticulously. She notes that the box has a combination lock, and is booby-trapped with numerous alarms and hazards.

" _Chuck's work,"_ Saldana mutters knowingly to herself. _"Must be careful."_

It takes her a while, but safely disarming and opening the case is well within the skill set of the CIA's top field geek.

And finally—after months of effort—Special Agent Juanita Saldana holds a Key between her thumb and forefinger. She admires Chuck's exact re-creation of his father's last great invention for a luxurious full minute, before putting everything back as it was. She departs Ellie's office undetected, with her intel secured.

* * *

**Not much later…at the restaurant**

The dishes are excellent, but the conversation gradually becomes intense enough that none of them eats very much. As Casey diligently keeps his glass full, Fleming does drink a generous amount of wine, which lubricates and amplifies his professorial style of talking with his hands. Nevertheless, he keeps his voice low, as do Chuck, Sarah, and Ellie—who have barely sampled their own glasses.

Although the subject is Sarah's memory loss, Ellie and Chuck are doing most of the back-and-forth with Fleming.

"So wait," Chuck is saying. "You really believe that Sarah might still have latent psychological trauma?"

He's holding his wife's hand under the table. Her gentle pressure on his hand and her facial expression both indicate that she's keeping remarkably calm, for being at the center of the increasingly heated discussion.

"Her signs have all pointed very clearly to recovery," adds Ellie, and Sarah nods.

Fleming raises an index finger as if to chide her. "Well, just remember that once the Intersect has been programmed into a human brain, it can never really be _removed_ —only _suppressed_. I trust that part of my lecture wasn't lost on you."

"What's your proof of _that?"_ Ellie demands.

"The case files of Daniel Shaw and Hartley Winterbottom, which I've studied in detail," says Fleming. He folds his hands across his chest for emphasis. "As well as the more limited data obtained when General Beckman used a suppression device on your friend Morgan Grimes."

"Yes but how is any of that predictive for Sarah's case?" interjects Chuck.

"Isn't it true that Sarah's trajectory matched Mr. Grimes's, both before and after her malfunctioning Intersect upload was suppressed by Quinn?" Fleming retorts, looking specifically at Ellie. "Except that the effects were even more severe?"

"Well…yes," admits Ellie. "That much is true. But I did an fMRI scan on Morgan soon after his download, and there was no residual brain trauma at all!"

Fleming leans back in his chair, casts his eyes upward, and laughs softly.

"My dear Ellie. You're a brilliant neurologist—I've read some of your papers. You can undoubtedly fix anything that's organically wrong with Sarah, but you're not a psychologist as I am. And you know full well that there are some things that just don't show up on an MRI."

Chuck looks with concern toward his sister who, for the moment, is speechless.

"And you can't turn to any of your psych colleagues here at Northwestern. At least, not without exposing the existence of the Intersect and your family's private project!"

" _I know where this is headed,"_ Sarah whispers in Chuck's ear.

"…But I can help, if Sarah comes back with me to Palo Alto. On my team I have qualified clinical psychologists who have already been read in on the Intersect. They can give her psychoanalysis and, subsequently, any therapies that are indicated."

"You don't know for sure she'll ever _need_ that!" Ellie fires back—this time loudly enough so that Casey frowns, and the patrons at several nearby tables turn to look.

Fleming's comeback is just as forceful but softer.

"Would you gamble on that, Ellie? As a physician, how could you withhold a possible remedy as long as that option is available?"

At that, Sarah finally speaks up.

" _Available!"_ she mimics, biting off the word. "And in exchange? Wait, wait, don't tell me…I know! Chuck will have to agree to join your Intersect research project!"

Fleming clucks his tongue and shakes his head, looking convincingly offended.

"Sarah, that kind of coercion would be unethical. No, no…all that I ask is that Chuck accompany you to Palo Alto, as he undoubtedly would want to anyway. He'll have a chance to see our facilities…talk to my associates and our benefactors. I am quite confident we'll win him _and_ you over, the good old up-front American way!"

Chuck and Ellie look blank; Sarah's eyes narrow.

"If it doesn't work out," Fleming continues with a shrug, "then no harm, no foul. You both leave under no further obligation. Sarah…Chuck…I sincerely believe all this would have transpired already, if my _—harrumph!—_ associate and I hadn't gotten off on the wrong foot with you in Las Vegas!"

Sarah drops Chuck's hand, rises slowly in her seat, and brings her face in close to Fleming's. Chuck and Ellie are nervous, concerned that they might have to restrain her from striking Fleming, or worse. Casey goes on alert and moves closer to the table.

But although Sarah's expression is angry—almost ferocious—her words come out calmly paced and even-toned.

"Y'know, George," she tells Fleming, who is now trembling, "you're not the only psyops expert at this table, and I see exactly what you're up to. In Vegas you worked on Chuck—trying to turn him to your side with grandiose talk about his father's mission and how you could help Chuck carry it out. That failed, so now you're working on _me_ —this time with jargon and scare tactics. _And that's not going to succeed either!"_

She sits back in her chair, then leans over to embrace a surprised Chuck, as fervently as she had just excoriated Fleming.

"The awful things you say could happen _never will_ —because I'm certain of my husband's love and my sister's care! You think there could be hell? I've already been there—and _they…brought…me…back!_ My family is all I need! So—for the second and last time—no thank you, Professor Fleming!"

"Sarah, please…." Fleming blubbers. "Chuck…? Son, surely you can understand—"

"You heard the lady," Chuck firmly replies. Ellie is smiling proudly, and just out of the professor's field of view and earshot, Casey gives a satisfied grunt.

"So be it," says Fleming sadly. "So be it. I suppose then it's time to ask for the check."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, but it's sticking with me for a while.

**EPILOGUE**

**Wednesday afternoon, Guantánamo Bay U. S. Naval Base, Cuba**

_(Music: "City of Sin," by Linus Young)_

The CIA helicopter lifts off from the Leeward Point naval airstrip for a brief flight east, across the mouth of Guantánamo Bay and along the rugged south coast to the ominous, highly secure Federal Detention Camp—established in 2002 for foreign terrorism suspects and special guests of the various U. S. intelligence agencies, near the eastern boundary of the chunk of territory leased from Cuba since the Treaty of 1903.

His passenger has never visited Gitmo before, so the chopper pilot gives her a quick tour, swooping over the chain-link outdoor cage-like cells of the abandoned Camp X-Ray, the orderly parallel metal roofs and tent canopies of Camps Delta and Echo—where the jaded prisoners don't even bother to look up at them—and the red-roofed, heavily fortified, quadrangular Intelligence Operations Facility. About a quarter-mile farther back in the dense tropical forest is a cluster of eight unfenced cottages—plain-looking structures but luxurious lodgings by Gitmo standards. The helicopter points in that direction and begins to descend.

" _Coming up on Penny Lane, ma'am,"_ announces the pilot.

He sets the aircraft down gently in a clearing about a hundred yards in front of the cottages and kills the engine. Penny Lane seems deserted; no guards are in sight, although there are security cameras in abundance.

A Marine guard on board the helicopter quickly jumps out to help the raven-haired passenger in black-hole sunglasses and camo BDUs descend from the cabin. He starts to follow her as she makes for the cottages, but she waves him off.

"Ma'am, excuse me?" the guard asks with some incredulity. "Didn't you want an escort into the compound?"

"Thank you but no, Corporal," replies Juanita Saldana. "This inmate will give me no trouble. Kindly wait here and I will be returning in about seven minutes with the man in question."

As she continues into the unfenced low-security encampment, Saldana inhales deeply, savoring the warm, moist tropical air and the faint sea breeze. She consults her iPad for the location of the cottage that holds the sole remaining prisoner in Penny Lane.

Shortly thereafter, Saldana finds her mark: an unkempt young man immersed in a strange kind of squalor, sprawled and snoring on a weatherbeaten couch in a spartan living room. Nothing hangs on the walls except for a couple of security cameras, which are presently trained on the young man snoozing with a pencil clutched in one hand, half-buried under a great mound of paperback Sudoku books. Hundreds more Sudoku books are strewn about the living room and hallways, mingling with dozens of empty soda cans and endless cheese-stained, jalapeño-pocked red-and-white paper platters that must have previously held nachos.

This young man's curly black hair runs wild all around his head, and he has a shaggy beard to match. Saldana wrinkles her nose: the sweet sea breezes outside have not penetrated this room very well.

Saldana slips off her sunglasses and taps her iPad screen. Both of the cameras on the wall go dormant. She reaches one black-booted foot out and nudges the sleeping man's knee. He jolts awake at the minimal touch, gasps, and cowers on the couch. With a blend of fear and curiosity in his eyes, he sizes up his visitor: an attractive woman with a confident, almost bored expression—and dressed in full military garb.

"Who're you?" he asks.

Saldana does not reply at first, but instead bends down to pick up one of the Sudoku books. She leafs through the pages of puzzles, noting that they're all completely filled out—and all of them done correctly.

"You must enjoy Sudoku a great deal," she observes matter-of-factly.

"That's all they let me _have!"_ he fires back. His voice has a tinge of desperation in it. "Only paper and pencil. No TV…no radio…and they haven't let me anywhere _near_ a computer in…I…I don't remember _how_ long it's been!"

Saldana smiles and shakes her head sympathetically. "Is that so? Such a waste, _no?_ I think perhaps it is time we changed that."

The messy young man sits up in a hurry.

" _Really?_ You'll get me a TV? Or did you mean—a computer?"

"A computer, yes…and potentially much more than that… _Manoosh."_

His eyes brighten at her suggestion—and hearing her address him by his name.

"Who _are_ you?" he asks again.

"I will tell you that if and when you need to know," retorts Saldana. "Your case files indicate that you have some skill in the art of reverse engineering complex digital devices. Is this accurate?"

Manoosh jumps up from the couch, revealing that he's in a rumpled sweatsuit labeled OFFICIAL PROPERTY OF GITMO. He clutches his hands together in supplication, eyeing Saldana as if she were some kind of angel in martial dress. She reacts by taking a step backward—not out of fear, but simply to avoid any chance of physical contact with him.

"Yes! _Yes!_ Let me show you!" begs Manoosh. "Whatever you need! Just…a computer…oh please!"

"I am an engineer myself," Saldana goes on, brusquely. "I require a skilled assistant for a very special project. Among its other benefits, the work would provide you with an opportunity to fully repay your debt to your country."

She glances around the room and sneers at Manoosh's nerdy messes.

"The position requires immediate relocation stateside. I trust that will not be an issue."

"Yes…no…please, ma'am…please!"

"Are you ready to leave now?"

" _Yes!"_ Manoosh half-cries, half-shrieks. "Of course I am! Yes! Please!"

" _Bueno,"_ Saldana says. "A helicopter awaits us."

She turns and heads for the door, and Manoosh follows her like an imprinted puppy. In the doorway, the CIA agent turns and cocks her head.

"It would seem you need no further incentive—but consider this," she says, tantalizingly. "If you work diligently for me, not only will you be serving your country…you will also be getting back at the specific individuals who betrayed you. Who caused you to be sent to this terrible place. How would you like that?"

Manoosh's eyes roll up in ecstasy. "This is the best day of my life," he mutters.

"And we will keep the lights on here for them," Saldana promises, smiling smugly.

* * *

**Wednesday, near dusk, on Chicago's Near North Side**

The warm spring evening is perfect for Chuck and Sarah to walk a few blocks from their suite at the Hotel Indigo to the Woodcomb family townhouse on East Division Street. Along the way, they stop at a streetside market to pick up some flowers, fresh-baked cookies, and a couple of bottles of wine. Right on time at seven, they're standing at the front stoop of the attractive two-story rose-brick home.

_(Music: "A Question and an Answer," by Tim Jones)_

Chuck has the bunch of flowers in his left hand and the shopping bag of goodies in his right, so Sarah steps up and reaches for the doorbell. Unexpectedly, she stops just short of pressing the button and withdraws her hand. She seems to be surprised by something.

"Wow…" she says, barely above a whisper, while staring at the front door.

Chuck sets the shopping bag down and puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Something wrong, babe?"

"Nothing…I just…umm, just flashed back to all those times we used to go to Ellie and Awesome's, for dinner or coffee or whatever. We'd be standing at their door—just like this, just like a normal couple except that—"

"Except that we were a fake couple?" Chuck teases her, his brown eyes twinkling.

" _Hahh!"_ Sarah snorts, and swats him playfully on the butt. "A _cover couple_ is what I was about to say. It was _never_ fake—and we both knew that, from the start."

"Yeah, we did," murmurs Chuck. "Ellie and Awesome knew it too, even with all their head-scratching trying to suss the two of us out. Before they got caught up in the spy world too."

Sarah nods. Her expression grows more pensive.

"Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm remembering how much I wanted us to be out of the spy world. All of us out. The way it was before Quinn."

Chuck slips his free arm around Sarah's waist and pulls her close to him. He looks into her face, questioningly.

"Is that how you feel now?"

"More than ever. Just as soon as we're done with this Intersect business. Deal?"

Chuck sighs. "Deal, babe. Deal."

"I love y—" Sarah begins to say—but she's cut off as Chuck's lips press against hers. Her arm swoops around his neck and they kiss, full-out—until the front door opens!

Mary Bartowski stands in the doorway with Clara in her arms.

"Let's not get all the neighbors talking," she chuckles. "You two had better come in."

_(As they enter, music begins: "Hurry Back Tonight," by Lydia)_

* * *

**A little while later**

Chuck and Casey sit casually on the waist-high brick wall of the second-floor outdoor patio, clinking and emptying frosty bottles of Dynamo Copper Lager, and watching Captain Awesome as he dances around his smoky charcoal grill—skillfully cooking up a mighty flotilla of rib-eye steaks for their dinner.

"Where's the wheatgrass?" kids Casey, as he lights a cigar and pivots to send a puff of blue-grey smoke out over the back alley beneath them.

Devon laughs. "That can wait 'til breakfast, John. What we've got goin' here is special-occasion grub!"

"Indeed!" cheers Chuck as he hoists his beer. "Here's to two-and-a-half fine days of probing and prodding by my own dear sister. May she never ask for more data!"

"I'll drink to that," replies Devon, who raises his own bottle in salute as Casey leans over and clinks bottles with Chuck once more.

"So what's next for you two?" Devon asks after a moment.

"Flying back to L.A. tomorrow…just in time to re-pack for a trip to Germany!"

"Germany, huh?"

"Yeah…an overdue cybersecurity inspection for a La Plata casino resort over there."

" _Hehnhh,"_ grunts Casey. "You can take in a _Jeffster!_ show while you're at it. Assuming they're not in _Polizei_ custody by now."

"Funny you should say that…."

* * *

_(Music continues: "Hurry Back Tonight," by Lydia)_

Inside the house, in the kitchen, Sarah chops carrots and celery with her characteristic swift precision, while Mary has Clara up on an adjacent counter to admire a vase full of the colorful spring flowers her uncle and aunt brought to the party. Meanwhile, Ellie gives in to curiosity and starts rustling around in the shopping bag. She hauls out a bottle of red wine and holds it up to read the label—then bursts out in sputtering laughter.

"You've _gotta_ be kidding me! Las Alturas pinot noir again?"

"I find it...a _most_ _intriguing_ varietal," replies Sarah—convincingly mimicking Professor Fleming's hearty voice.

"H'yeah," sneers Ellie. "Still, it was actually kind of delicious…so, good choice."

But then, she puts the bottle down on the counter and turns to give her sister-in-law a surprisingly plaintive look.

"Speaking of Fleming…Sarah, you do realize there's at least a _teeny_ little chance he could be right about…you…you know?"

"Well I'm not worried," Sarah replies with abundant confidence.

"That's good. But be assured—if _ever_ any kind of post-traumatic effects appear down the road, I will make absolutely sure you're treated for 'em…even if we have to break cover."

"Thank you, Ellie," says Sarah with a sweet smile. "I know I can always count on you. But Chuck reminded me that we also know someone else who could help. There's this psychiatrist who treated Chuck when the Intersect was causing him trouble..."

Sarah pauses and shakes her head. "I can't tell you his name."

Ellie smiles back at her. "That's okay. I'm just glad you have plenty of options." She turns back to root in a nearby kitchen drawer for a corkscrew, then opens the bottle.

Mary gently lowers Clara back to the floor, and the little girl runs off to her room for something to play with, as her grandma collects three wine glasses.

"Let's get this party started," says Ellie as she pours the wine for all the ladies. Just as she hands Mary and Sarah each a full glass, her iPhone, lying atop the counter, chimes with an incoming text message.

"Geez!" she exclaims as she picks up the phone and glares at the screen. "Oh! Well _finally_ —it's the lab! The results of your blood panel are in at last, Sarah. I'm sure everything's going to turn up normal..."

Ellie goes online to access her secure hospital intranet inbox, and starts reading through the PDF with the test results—then, about halfway through, she emits a clearly audible _gasp!_ —nods—and goes a wee bit pale. Calmly, deliberately, she puts the phone down.

"What is it?" asks Mary.

"Not good, sounds like," suggests Sarah, warily.

"Mom," Ellie says, glancing at Mary, "would you please keep an eye on Clara for a few minutes?" Then she turns back to Sarah and gently takes the wine glass out of her sister-in-law's hand.

"Go get your husband," she orders. "Hurry!"

Thirty seconds later, Sarah and Chuck are sitting together, nervously holding hands, on the edge of the queen bed in Ellie and Devon's bedroom. The bedroom door is closed and only Ellie is with them. She stands there looking worried—then excited—then worried again….

"I had them run tests," she explains, "for anything and everything I could possibly think of…though in the back of my head, I…um…had an idea of what might've been up with Sarah in the MRI lab."

"And…?" Chuck asks.

"But it's so early—they were barely able to confirm it."

" _Early?"_ Sarah asks—and grips her husband's hand a heck of a lot tighter.

"Yeah…and what d'ya mean by 'confirm'?" Chuck adds. "What is it, Sis?"

Ellie laughs timidly, shakes her head—and her eyes suddenly get moist.

"Oh, Chuck…Sarah…don't know how you're gonna take this…Sarah _, you're pregnant!"_

_(Closing credits and Chuck titles theme, by Tim Jones)_

* * *

**_Chuck, Sarah, and all their spy friends will (eventually) be back for new adventures across the pond, in Episode 6.07:_** " ** _Chuck Versus Das Boot!"_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, I thank you—my readers—for your Kudos and Comments.  
> Special thanks to atcDave, whose ChuckThis! blog posts keep the torch burning for Chuck FF.


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